The Price of Happiness
by S-Jay494
Summary: A hunt goes sideways and Dean wakes up in 2005 in Lawrence. His family is alive, and there is no sign of an angel, demon or monster anywhere. Can he leave well enough alone or must he find out what happened? Happiness comes with a price, but is it one he is willing to pay? [Set in S8 post "Best Friends With Benefits"] Contains the Winchester Clan and other fan favs.
1. Chapter 1

_**Title:**_ The Price of Happiness (Chapter 1)

**_Synopsis_**: A simple salt and burn goes sideways and Dean wakes up in 2005 in Lawrence. His family is alive, and there is no sign of an angel, demon or monster anywhere. Can he leave well enough alone or does he have to find out what happened? Happiness comes with a price, but is it one he is willing to pay? [_Set in Season 8 post "Best Friends With Benefits"] Contains hurt Dean/worried Sam and AU John, Mary, and Bobby._

**_Notes_**: Writer's block on my second novel continues so here I am playing in Winchester Land again. As a devout member of Team Dean, I wanted to give him a glimpse at a world where things turned out differently and where maybe, just maybe, he amounted to more than he ever dreamed, but how often do these things turn out well for him? Drop me a review if you have the time.

* * *

There was something different about the mists in this cemetery. Dean was sure of it. He remarked on it, well more like bitched about it, several times, as he and Sam hiked in the pitch dark across the uneven ground. The sweet spot calling to them was at the back of the bone yard—the oldest section that dated back to the 1740s. It was after midnight, near the cusp of spring following a long and tiring hunt.

This was an old-school ghost hunt, plain and simple.

Or, at least, it was supposed to be.

Except the ghost took a week and a half to identify—Sam just wasn't on his A-game for some reason, and that was both pissing Dean off and worrying him. In his brother's defense, Dean too thought that the spirit had done a damn good impersonation of a spirit that was attached to an object rather than just one needing its bones torched. Next, someone had played 3 grave monty with the evil son of a bitch's burial site a hundred years earlier, oh, and the friggin' fire to the town hall in the 1950s made finding accurate records a class A pain in the ass. Not to mention it was a small town and in Vermont (friggin' Vermont!) where everybody knew everybody forever and their damn business, but no one could answer a question with a straight answer. It was like the whole state took a masters course on being vague and evasive.

Several false starts, two close brushes with the law (one with the state troopers and one with the local Barney Fife) added to many long days not followed by restful nights. That did nothing to put a shine on Dean's attitude. He was sick of being cold and tired. He wondered if that meant he was getting soft or just old. The four hours of sleep he got normally wasn't all that restful, but sleeping in their typical crap motel rooms was difficult for him now. The chill of the damp March air sunk into his bones and made him shiver constantly and warded off any hope of blissful sleep.

Plus, he missed his room.

Dean had a room waiting for him back in Lebanon, Kansas, and actual, honestly his, room. For the first time since he was a child, he actually had his very own bedroom. And he missed it. It missed him, too, Dean was certain; after all, the mattress on his bed was memory foam. What was the point of a memory if it didn't make you long and ache for something?

"We'll dig up the bones, burn them and be out of here," Sam groaned, sensing his brother's thoughts as he trudged silently over the sodden ground beside him.

"Damn right we will," Dean grumbled. "Friggin' hate this place."

"You actually like Vermont," Sam reminded him.

"No, I don't," he shook his head. "Not any more. And neither do you—not this time of year."

"Maple syrup, Dean," Sam reminded him of the very reason he agreed to take this job when Garth called to tell them about it. "You are the one who was rejoicing that this is the time of year when Maple syrup is born."

"Friggin' half-frozen ground and mud everywhere," Dean grumbled not listening to his brother. "The freak snow storms followed by torrential downpours followed by fog—all in the same damn hour. I'm surprised they didn't actually burn witches here; you'd think they'd want to do anything to warm this place up. You know what kind of people live in places like this?"

"Vermonters?" Sam wondered.

"Exactly," Dean nodded viciously. "Crazy people. Masochistic son of a bitches."

Sam shook his head. He was tired, too. He hadn't kept the same sleepless schedule his brother did, but Dean also wasn't the one on the verge of throwing up a lung. And if that and his own fears about what was happening to him wasn't hard enough to deal with, there was also the wearying task of trying to hide it all from Dean. Sam was no longer as optimistic about the trials that were allegedly going to slam shut the gates of Hell. The more he thought about it, the more it felt like his insides were liquefying slowly, and the more hopeless the situation seemed. He cut his eyes across the dark and misty space to look at his brother.

Dean continued to grumble under his breath, shaking his head and scowling at some inner dialogue about how much he hated this hunt and the weather and pretty much anything else that came to his mind at the moment. Sam left him to his grousing; Dean needed to stew about things until his mind burned out the anger or came to some acceptable resolution to the. Sam envied him his ability to do this, again and again, without giving in and breaking in a million pieces. Sure, Dean was… well, damaged. Life hadn't been fair or kind to either of them, but his older brother always seemed to take the brunt of the shit storms that came their way.

Still Sam marveled that, somehow, Dean always slogged through his floods of misery and crushing pessimism. Sure, there were the definitely unhealthy and worrisome bouts of self-medicating and the suicidal approaches to dangerous situations, but he always seemed to pull it together and do what needed to be done. He shouldered his hopelessness with stoicism and somehow made it look… Well, not easy, but he certainly kept one foot in front of the other as if there was no other choice. Sam used to get so mad at him for doing that—it was the reason Sam stepped in to do the trials. Dean was resigned to his death as a hunter and acted as if he would welcome it. Sam didn't want that for him. Dean had sacrificed enough in his life for strangers and for Sam himself. This was Sam's chance to pay him back for a lifetime of not putting himself first and for caring for his younger brother and taking care of him when no one else really seemed to do the same for Dean. Dean's choice to embrace the likelihood of his own dark and sticky end always enraged Sam, but now he finally understood that Dean's decision was not a weakness or a sign of defeat. It was a skill honed over a lifetime. Sam had faced death, his own and that of others, in his life, but not like his brother had. Sam felt terrible at the little, but growing, voice in his head that was telling him that he should have let Dean kill that Hellhound. He didn't doubt Dean could pass all the trials; he doubted he himself could. He didn't want to lose Dean, but he wondered if his selfishness in wanting to save his brother from this might result in both his own death and a failure to close the gates as well.

But the trials were another problem for another day, Sam shook his head. They were here in the Mt. Calvary Cemetery in northern Vermont to dig up the corpse of a nasty old preacher whose spirit had terrorized a dwelling for the better part of two centuries. An hour of strenuous digging in the thick and penetrating mist kept Sam's mind focused and worked his muscles into a state of exhaustion that felt good compared to the crushing pains that would flare in his chest every few hours lately.

He crawled out of the hole as Dean finished brushing away the dirt from the bones that lay on the ground. The coffin, probably nothing more than a pine box when it went into the ground, had disintegrated over the last 250 years. Dean raked the bones into a pile and climbed out of the muddy hole. Sam sat wearily on the ground, the dampness soaking quickly through his jeans. He shook his head. Dean would be pissed at the mud he was going to leave on the seats of the Impala, but Sam didn't care. It was all he could do to keep his head up as he fought the urge to cough and raise more chunks of blood from his chest.

"You okay?" Dean asked him. "It's this friggin' pea soup fog. We're both gonna get pneumonia."

Rather than wait for a response, Dean empted the can of lighter fluid into the hole, dowsing the damp bones before pouring a healthy shot of salt over the mess. The rattle in Sam's chest erupted quickly, sending him to his knees where he doubled over and gasped for breath. It was as if the midnight mists were flooding his lungs, drowning him. Dean was quickly kneeling beside him, his back to the gaping wound in the ground, as he pounded on Sam's back.

"Sam?" he asked. "You okay? Come on, man. Take a breath. Sammy?"

Sam turned his head to look at his brother as his concerned voice suddenly stopped. Instead, Sam felt a whoosh of cold, wet air, like something huge and fast swept between them. Next, Sam found himself flipping over into his back with his head slamming hard into the ground beside a crumbling limestone grave marker. His protesting lungs seized as he tried to shout for his brother, who was nowhere in his field of vision.

Dean's last conscious thought was that the mist shouldn't have arms or the force of a freight train. One moment, he was feeling the oppressive mist pressing in on him as he checked on his ailing brother. The next thing he knew, he there was a high-pitched shrieking in his ears, and he was falling fast through thick, wet darkness.

Dean's eyes opened to a dimly-lit room with a smooth, clean, white ceiling. He twisted his head to the side expecting to see Sam, some crappy bedspread, water stained walls or ugly curtains. The motels, regardless of the town or the state, were always the same: crappy dives where no one remembered your name or your face. In other words: a hunter's haven.

But this wasn't one of those.

There was something distantly familiar about the space, but he could not place it precisely. It wasn't his room at the batcave. Although he and Sam had only recently taken up residence in there, Dean had quickly adjusted and become accustomed to the layer. The feel of the air, the concept of the size of the space, the smells and the sounds were now all filed and stored in his memory.

This was not the place he currently thought of as their stronghold. This place was smaller, a bit warmer and… slightly tense. There was something about the forced quiet of the place that made the hairs on the back of Dean's neck stand up and prickle.

He blinked hard and instinctively moved his fingers and toes, glad to note that they worked.

He knew he was awake, but the sudden churning of his stomach made him feel like it might also be the cusp of a nightmare. Dean couldn't place why at first. Sure, he didn't recall how he got wherever he was. That he didn't know where he was wasn't very reassuring either. It had been a while since he'd woken up in a place where he didn't recall going to sleep. His head hurt, which led more weight to the leading theories of a hangover or a head injury. He looked carefully around the room again taking in the details for what they were rather than what they were not.

There was one bed, so no Sam in sight. The walls were a pale blue. The trim was white. There were two windows, shrouded by dark curtains with no discernible pattern in them.

_Someone's bedroom_, Dean presumed as he slowly sat up in the double bed and looked more carefully around the space. There was a closet along the far wall and adjacent to it. He looked around, expecting to see evidence of a woman. Why else would he be in some stranger's double bed? But he found none of that.

He looked at himself. He wore a light gray T-shirt and a pair of thin cotton black drawstring pants.

Not naked, he shrugged, which eliminated his theory of a bar hook up resulting in strange location and an evening of recreation.

Dean raising his hands to his face to wipe the sleep out of his eyes, he felt an ache in his muscles, like he had not moved in a while or like he had healing bruises on his back. His head also throbbed, a dull pounding, but when he ran his hands through his hair, he couldn't feel any knots or bumps. There was, however, a tender line along his hairline above his right eye.

"What the hell?" he said and scrambled out of the bed toward the mirror on the dresser.

He stumbled on stiff legs to it and leaned in close. There was a recently healed scar, from an expert sewing hand, hidden just inside his hairline.

"What the fuck?" he muttered then looked more closely at his reflection.

It was his face, sort of. He couldn't quite put his finger on the issue, but he looked slightly different. The more he looked, the more he was drawn to his eyes. They were the right color. There was no bruising around them but they appeared… different, softer (maybe) or… less… haunted? Dean blinked hard several times then shook his head, and regretted it, as the throbbing flared.

Taking a slow, deep breath, he then turned to look at the room for more clues for where he was and why.

Before his eyes could dissect things further, a voice called out and froze his blood in his veins.

"Dean," she called, "are you awake?"

His throat got tight and his mouth went instantly dry. He felt his heart trip in its normal rhythm and his previously stiff knees felt weak as the voice registered in the cobwebs of his mind.

"Honey?" she called again.

"Yeah," he said and heard the crack in his voice so he cleared his throat and tried to sound calm. "I'm up."

He shook his head again and (once again) regretted it as the world spun and warped itself making him dizzy and his stomach flip. He took a deep, slow, steadying breath and opened the door to find himself in a hallway that he last stepped foot in seven years earlier. It was Sam that made him go there the last time because one of his freaky visions. Dean wondered fleetingly if his brother was downstairs with an explanation for this, but he didn't think even Sam could make sense of the voice Dean heard calling to him a moment earlier. It was not one he could remotely be hearing, not unless something had gone gravely wrong.

What had happened? He had been in Vermont, friggin' land of cows, Ben & Jerry's, and hippies with hair as bad as Sam's, to hunt a ghost. Garth sent him and Sam there. They had tracked down the naughty Casper and were heading off to do a typical salt and burn and then… His memory after that was hazy…. No, not hazy. Misty. That mist. He knew there was something off with it. It was too cold and too thick and had tried to choke Sam.

How the hell did weather do this, he wondered as he walked stiffly and cautiously down the stairs.

Scifi film sized butterflies filled Dean's stomach as he descended to the first floor and into the living room. The room looked different from the last time he saw it and from the last time he called this place home. The paint was a warm, fresh and neutral color. The furniture looked new but settled, like it had been in place for some time but didn't suffer the wear and tear of young children. There was a large, flat screen TV against the wall and the fireplace had been fitted with a gas insert so that there was no more iron grate for wood. With jitters bubbling in his stomach and radiating out into his limbs, he continued into the kitchen toward the thin woman with long blond hair. Her locks were pulled back in a sloppy pony tail as she stood in front of the sink with he back to him. She was looking out the window while speaking on a cell phone. His breath caught in his chest as she turned and beamed at him so brightly he couldn't help but return the expression, although he felt tears in his eyes.

"So I'm dead," Dean said quietly to himself and nodded as he looked anxiously into the welcoming face of his mother, Mary Winchester.

"See you in a few," she said into the phone. "The door's unlocked."

She disconnected and looked at Dean with an expectant expression.

"Mom?" Dean said with a tight and shaky voice.

"Did I wake you?" she asked. "I'm sorry. I thought you were already awake already."

Dean swallowed dryly and shook his head, his heart thumping hard against his ribs almost making them ache.

"That was your father," she said putting down the cell phone.

"Of course, it was," Dean nodded then shook his head as he rubbed his hand over his neck. "Cell phones in the beyond. That's gotta be a bitch of a long distance plan."

"What?" Mary asked him, looking at him oddly as if she didn't quite hear him.

Dean shook his head and simply looked back at her, enjoying the moment, despite the frantic fluttering of his heart which was making him lightheaded. His mother was there, in front of him. Her face appeared older than his memory of it, but her eyes—those bright, wide eyes that always seemed to smile at him—were the same. She placed her hand on his face, in a caressing and comforting fashion. The muscles in his stomach rippled and his heart continued to stutter.

"Honey, are you okay?" she asked warmly as concern washed over her features. "You look very pale."

"Not really worried about the whole pale thing," he replied looking around wildly taking in the space as his breathing came in gasps. "I just… can't believe that… I'm… That you're… here."

"Of course, I'm here," she smiled. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Rather than answer, he pulled her into an embrace and held her tightly. The sensation was overwhelming. A lump the size of a baseball formed in his throat and his eyes burned hot with tears. She hugged him and patted his back as she chuckled.

"Not that I mind a hug from my son, but you're worrying me, Dean," she said as he released her. "Honey, are you alright?"

"Well, obviously not, but I'll get over it eventually," he shrugged.

She pressed her hand to his face. Her skin was warm and soft. The mild scent of some sort of hand cream filled his senses as she ministered to him.

Dean swallowed hard. This didn't feel like his other memories of heaven. It was too tangible, too present tense. Heaven looked real and sounded real and even tasted real, but it lacked something. Dean could never put his finger on what, but it was like being able to tell the difference between really good CGI and actual footage. The discrepancies were miniscule and were only apparent if you concentrated hard, looked for them and knew they did exist. That was lacking here. This also was something not in his memory—not even from a dream or the time that Jin tried to siphon the life out of him. This moment was new.

"Dean, sweetheart, tell me what's wrong?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said. "I… uh… When did I get here? I don't remember dying."

"Dying?" she snapped and shook her head. A deeply concerned expression washed over her face as she pressed the underside of her wrist to his forehead. "Why are you talking about dying? Does your head hurt? Did you have a seizure? Sweetie, sit down. Now."

She forced him to sit on one of the stools pulled up to the island in the kitchen. She focused on his eyes, as if she was looking through them into his head. She then pressed her fingers to his jugular and felt for his pulse.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Feeling your pulse to see if you're going to faint," she said.

"I don't' faint," he scowled.

"Shh," she hushed him. "Your heart's beating kind of fast. Well, you don't feel warm. Can you hear me okay, baby? Can you see me?"

"Yeah, I can," he nodded slowly. "That's kind of the issue."

"What issue?" she asked. "I don't think you've got a fever, but your color is off. How do you feel?"

Dean licked his lips then chewed the bottom one for a second as he pondered the question. He had no viable answer so he merely shrugged as he let his eyes drink in the sight of her playing nurse to him.

"Let me get back to you on that," he nodded as he heard the front door opened followed by the sound of heavier footfalls down the hallway.

"John?" Mary called quickly over her shoulder. Her voice held an urgent quality. "Get in here. Now."

Dean turned instinctively to see if it was his father that was approaching. He felt his eyes go wide with his second dose of shock. John Winchester, or something that looked a lot like him, was striding quickly toward Dean. His hair was dark with just the faintest hints of gray streaking through it, but the deep lines cut the corners of his eyes by years of worry and sleeplessness during hunts were missing by half. He sported a version of his worried expression, but it lacked some of the aggressiveness Dean normally saw in it. There was also a smile hiding under his worry. Dean rubbed his slightly trembling hands over his face and ground the heels of his palms into his eyes as he stared back at the man.

"Okay, this is a whole new bucket of weird," Dean muttered.

"What is it?" John asked. "Is he okay?"

"I don't know," Mary replied. "He seems a little disoriented and said something about being dead."

"Dead?" John repeated then shook his head as he chuckled dryly. "Well, that's more than a little disoriented, Mary. What's going on, Slugger?"

Dean looked at the man and choked down a breath. Hearing his father's voice, warm and close, speaking so kindly was soothing if foreign. Dean felt steadied as John hand gripped his elbow reassuringly.

"Honey, are you in pain?" Mary asked quickly. "Do you feel lightheaded? Is your vision blurry?"

"Give him some space, Mary," John said softly but firmly. "Dean, what's going on? You even awake yet?"

"Um," Dean began then shrugged. Their worry and concern cut into him deeply. Lying to ease that seemed like an easy cure. "Uh, now, maybe. I had a… weird dream, I guess."

"That all?" John asked in a firm voice Dean recognized. "A weird dream? Being dead is just a weird dream to you? Be straight with me, Champ. How are you feeling?"

_Champ? Slugger? What the hell? The most I ever got was 'dude.' Something is definitely wrong. Maybe I've had a stroke._

"Or I'm in a coma," Dean muttered without meaning to.

"Coma?" John repeated then looked at Mary knowingly and nodded. "No, hey, that's all in the past now. Okay? You good? You're awake now. Right?"

Dean blinked hard several times and looked up at the faces of his parents. They looked real, solid and not at all like a mirage. The room felt real. The temperature was… well, room temperature. He could feel his feet on the floor, which was not something he ever thought about in a dream which made his heart race faster. Time travel, the backward kind, didn't make sense. His mother was older here—more like the age she should be if they had lived. His father appeared younger than he had at his death, but not by much, more like what he would have been if life had been easier and kinder to the man. That signaled to Dean that this certainly wasn't a trip to the past. He never knew or saw these moments with them. Whatever this was, Dean had no idea when or where he was. There was, of course, an easy way to solve that dilemma.

"What day is it?" he asked.

"September 15," John replied.

"What year, you know, just for the hell of it?" Dean inquired.

Mary and John exchanged concerned looks. When his father answered slowly with 2005, Dean couldn't suppress his laugh.

That explained things. _Yep, definitely some sour mojo going on here_.

Someone had thrown his ass back in time—to a time that never occurred, granted. His leading theories out of the gate were another Jin rush or an angel hijacking. He didn't recall encountering any Jin recently, but he knew how to end this; he just needed to attempt to kill himself. God, he hated doing that. Even when you were 90 percent sure it was the right thing and would save you, shivving your own ass was not easy. Of course, if this was angel high jinx, one of those ass monkeys would step in and stop him before he did the deed (probably) or simply bring him back afterward (assuming Death let them; he had been pretty firm with Dean the last time they conversed that he wasn't to heedlessly throw his life away anymore and not expect more permanent consequences).

"Honey, what's so funny?" Mary asked, petting the side of his face.

Her touch sent shivers down his spine, not because it was cold or harsh, but because he could actually feel it. She was there. They both were. Standing there, breathing, looking at him, talking to him.

"Nothing, just," he shrugged. "The year. Makes perfect sense now. It's not 2013. Its eight years ago. Of course."

"Eight years?" Mary repeated. "Sweetheart, what are you talking about?"

"Uh, the… dream," Dean said shaking his head deciding to play along. The worried look on her face made his heart ache. She might just be a really strong hallucination/ high def angel clay-mation deal, but he couldn't let her worry like this. "Had a really, really… weird, vivid dream. Thought it was real. That's all."

She relaxed and sighed in a way that released the tension from her face. Her lips curled into a sympathetic smile as she rubbed his cheek for a moment, raising another lump in his throat and a prickle of tears in his eyes.

"A few messed up dreams is not surprising all things considered," John nodded understandingly.

_Yeah, that was just too weird. Someone didn't do their homework. First Dad's all Father of the Year with the patience and now the old man is understanding? Strike two on the reality count._

"Right, screwy is expected," Dean nodded, then continued figuring his play dumb strategy was working so far. "Uh, why is that again?"

"Well, they've taken you off a lot of medication in the last two weeks," he said. "The doctors said that could wreak havoc with your sleep for a bit. I remember when I had my back surgery two years ago. There are two days after surgery when I don't remember a thing, but apparently, I was up and walking and talking. I even called you and had an 20 minute conversation that I don't recall."

"That makes two of us," Dean mumbled.

_Okay, drugs. Another option._ _Not usually my style, but maybe it wasn't my choice. An injury? Painkillers maybe? Or did someone slip me something? _

The last option seemed more likely. Dean knew hadn't tried anything recreational. He wasn't even filling the flask much lately—too worried about Sam and those damn god trials to close the gates of hell. He had to stay sharp, keep his game face on and spot the danger before it spotted he and Sam. Maybe there was something on Garth's boat… Weird aquatic mold giving him a brain fungal disease…

"I'm calling Dr. Grayson," Mary said.

"No doctors," Dean said instinctively.

To his relief, his father nodded. Whether he was agreeing for the same reason didn't matter; Dean was just happy to have an ally. Having that ally be the most stubborn man he ever met wasn't too bad either.

"Mary, stop," John said. "He just woke up. He obviously didn't sleep much and was… dreaming. Let him clear his head. Dean, take it easy."

"Yes, sir," he nodded as John placed his hand reassuringly on his shoulder.

His mouth felt dry and his heart continued to race. While the situation was weird and his head was desperately trying to figure out what was going on, a part of him didn't care. He was sitting in the kitchen of the house that should have been his home, talking to his parents, both of them, alive and well. It was kind of hard, no matter what terrible act sent him there, not to feel fan-friggin'-tastic about it, even in a little way.

"Son, look at me," John said, his eyes warm but intense as he looked hard at Dean. The pressure of his hand on Dean's neck was made him tremble and John seemed to notice it. "Do you feel okay?"

There was the worry Dean recognized (but that he usually associated with looks the man used on Sam), and something else there was well. It was an openness, an unabashed affection and care, an unrestrained and unashamed warmth directed at him that made Dean's chest ache.

"Sure, I guess," he shrugged. "It's just a little weird being… here… isn't it?"

John nodded and patted him gently on the shoulder. He turned his gaze back to Mary and shook his head, confirming his order to cease summoning a doctor.

"See?" he said. "He's okay. He woke up in his old room, and it threw him a bit after some spaced out dreams. That's all. Right, champ?"

Dean nodded. Sure, he could go with that for now.

"Well, you've only been home for a three days, so I'm not surprised," he said. "This is a lot in a short time. Do you remember anything at all from that day you got home?"

"I don't even recall getting here," Dean said truthfully.

"I'm not surprised," John nodded. "You were still kind of out of it from your meds. So you need to take it easy. You're freaking your mother out."

"They should have kept him in the hospital," Mary said sternly. "He shouldn't be here."

Her tone was fierce and angry. Dean winced at her words and the sharp and accusing look in her eyes. They stung him painfully. He nodded and moved from his seat.

"I can go," he said quickly and started to move away.

"Oh, no," Mary gasped quickly, her cold expression melting as she hurried to his side and coaxed him to sit down again. "I didn't mean it like that, honey. I didn't mean I want you to leave. No, of course not. I mean that I wasn't convinced you were well enough to be discharged."

_Discharged? From what? Heaven? Hell? Purgatory? My life? Yeah, I'm not sure I was ready either; I just haven't a friggin' clue how I was 'discharged'… or where I am now_.

"Just coming home took so much out of you," she sighed as she stroked his cheek. He gazed back at her and stopped worrying about all the questions bouncing around in his mind. "I'm not surprised you're confused. Dean, don't try to be brave or strong for me. Remember what we agreed to with the doctors: You could come home as long as you're upfront about how you're feeling. You need tell me if you feel dizzy or lightheaded. We need to know so we can make sure you're okay."

"I'm good," he nodded cautiously.

"Are you dizzy?" she asked.

Her expression was suspicious yet somehow trusting. He found that he couldn't lie to her.

"A little," he nodded.

"Headache?" she inquired as her hand cupped his chin.

He gazed back into her bright and shrewd eyes and felt tears brimming in his own. He knew they would spill over his lids if he looked at he any longer.

"Uh, yeah," he said, looking away. "Woke up with one. It's… not bad."

"Okay," she replied satisfied as she smiled lovingly at him. "Anything else?"

"No," he shook his head. "I mean, I'm a little confused about the day and what I'm doing here precisely, but overall, I'd say I've felt much worse. Right?"

John loosed a rumbling chuckle and exhaled any tension he was holding.

"Yeah, I'll say," he replied and then offered a few more details. "You were discharged from the hospital two days ago following an extended stay after a car accident. You felt much worse the day you got there and on a few more after that."

From his calm and measured tone, Dean got the feeling this was not the first time he had given this speech. Dean exhaled slowly as dread began spreading through his body.

"What car accident?" Dean asked.

His blood ran cold as he realized he was the only Winchester offspring in the house at the moment. Fake reality or not, he worried about Sam. Even fake reality Sam dying was not good in Dean's book—especially if it turned out something Dean did ended up killing him. Had they wrecked the car? He remembered something about Sam choking but not why or whether he was able to get help. They hadn't made it back to the car as far as he knew.

"There was an accident in July—the day after the All Star Game," John said carefully.

"Was I alone?" Dean wondered. "Wait. Did you say All-Star Game?"

That made no sense. Watching sporting events, especially pointless exhibitions like all-star games, didn't make it into Dean's calendar and certainly wasn't the way his father ever measured time. Things happened after they torched a Wendigo or while they were stalking a skinwalker or the night they ganked a werewolf. The world of hunting held many secrets and while Dean considered he and his brother to know most of it now, he knew it was foolish for him to believe he knew all of it. So that led to another (possibly ludicrous) question: Did hunters have a professional league? He really should have known if they did. And if there was an All-Star hunting team, he was certain he and Sam would make the cut, be starters even. They'd have to at least let Garth sit on the bench with them and keep stats. Screwy little guy had grown on Dean; he couldn't be left behind.

Of course when Dean thought about what that game might entail, he wasn't sure he wanted to be a part of it. No doubt the end was bloody whether you were the winners or not. He shook his head at the possibilities.

"You were the passenger in a car that was hit by another," John explained. "It was a head-on collision. The driver of the other car was killed. You got hurt. You're lucky to be alive, Dean."

No mention of who was driving him, Dean nodded. That was a clue and a positive one in his book. If it was Sam driving (like the last time he was nearly killed in a car wreck), surely that would have been mentioned. The lack of information, while maddening, was a little reassuring. Dean decided to wade more slowly into this.

"Lucky, yeah," he nodded, feeling more lost by the minute as he rubbed the new scar on his head. "Hit my head?"

John nodded and explained about the airbags deploying but Dean still receiving a skull fracture, a few fractured vertebrae and a few other breaks along with some soft tissue damage. Dean wasn't really listening to those details. He was too overwhelmed by the haunted look on his mother's face as his father recited his litany of injuries. When he finished, Dean found he could only nod for a moment as he felt himself rubbing his hand along the phantom healed breaks of his ribs.

"Is your chest hurting?" Mary asked, spying his motion. "Do you have any numbness in your hands? I know you're supposed to work out today, but maybe it's better if you just rest more."

"Mary, he's got to build up his strength," John interjected. "Those are doctor's orders."

"He needs to be up and active," she countered. "No one said he needs to act like he's in training."

He felt the tension in the room rise as his parents' voices took on a bickering tone that made him feel anxious and like a scared child again. He felt stupid, but he was worried his father was about to start yelling and then would storm out has he did in some of Dean's earliest memories. Dad leaving always scared Dean back then; he realized years later that it was those moments that added to his desperation to please the man when they took up hunting. The fear of his father growing angry and leaving him was one of his two greatest fears growing up.

"Please don't," Dean interrupted their budding argument.

Both stopped speaking and looked at him with a mixture of apology and worry. He blushed slightly and told himself to pull himself together.

"So, accident was in July and now it's almost October, but I just got sprung from the doctor jail?" he summarized. "Seems kind of long for a stay considering I don't feel like a drooling, brain damaged mess. Am I missing something or deluding myself?"

"Honey, you were basically in a coma for nine weeks," Mary explained. Her eyes grew red as she blinked furiously. She sniffed quickly and blinked a few times. "That's why your memory is a little fuzzy, but you're going to be okay."

"I always thought my head was hard enough to withstand anything," Dean mused mostly to himself but caught a half smirk from his father that, while uncharacteristic from the man, and made Dean want to smile back even if this bizzaro hologram wasn't his real father.

"We thought so, too, kido," John agreed and tossed him a wink. "So far, looks like we're right. You're bouncing back just fine. I'd say you take after me with that hard head, but I'll give your mother some credit, too. You're too damn stubborn to stay hurt. She's always been tougher than me so I guess you get that from her, even though she still thinks you're her fragile little boy."

Mary scowled and swatted at John, not entirely playfully, but the slight curl of her lips at the end took most of the sting out of her displeased expression. Any fears Dean had that they would begin yelling angrily at each other disappeared.

"Wait, fragile little boy?" Dean repeated and shook his head. "Okay, that's just not right. This is bordering on a trippy."

"Trippy?" she laughed. "You're not on anything right now."

"But when you were on the really high-test stuff, it must have been something," John chuckled. "Some of the stuff you said made me think you might understand the '70s even better than I do."

Dean looked at the man with a mildly shocked expression. The old man was joking, well, not joking because his expression was a truthful one, but he was making a joke all the same. Dean didn't know how to reply so he merely looked back at the man with his jaw hanging open slightly.

"John," Mary sighed and shook her head scolding him. "Sweetheart, they had you on some very heavy medications because you had a few seizures, but it's been weeks since that happened. You're doing very well so you've been eased off most of those medications. You still have a few you're taking and they do cause you some disorientation if you're overly tired or if your temperature is up. You felt a little feverish last night before bed. I looked in on you when I went to bed and you were restless. I'm guessing you didn't sleep well. So, that may be what is causing you some confusion this morning. Don't get discouraged. Remember, the doctors told us this was normal."

"Let's hope I didn't lose too many IQ points," Dean remarked. "Don't exactly have enough to run a deficit."

"I'm fairly certain UCLA is not revoking your degree," John said.

"My degree?" Dean repeated then nodded cautiously. "Right, because it's really useful one."

_UCLA? College? I went to college? To study what? Breaking and entering? And in California? No, that was Sam's deal. Although, the coeds…_

"I wish you wouldn't do that, honey," Mary said, but her expression lost more of its worry and took on a slightly frustrated 'you always do this' shade. She rubbed his arm supportively. "It's wonderful that you have a career doing what you love, but there is no reason for you to downplay your other accomplishments."

_Yeah, killing ghosts; starting and then stopping the apocalypse; escaping Purgatory. Bet there aren't many resumes like that in the world._

"You have an education," she continued. "It's okay to be proud of that, too. It might not be considered cool or impressive with your co-workers, but you worked hard for it. I know that some of the guys have degrees, too. Granted, theirs are in geography or phys ed…"

"GPS and gym class?" Dean noted. "Yeah. That's impressive."

John smiled and nodded.

"Which is why he doesn't throw it in their faces, Mary," John shook his head. "It's a guy thing."

"If we'd had a daughter, what excuse would you have then or would I be allowed to say 'it's a girl thing'?" she wondered tartly but there was no anger in her eyes.

"Fair enough," John relented with a teasing sound to his voice. "As you know, I don't usually agree with your mother, but she's right on this. Mechanical engineering as a fallback option isn't such a bad thing. Once you're done with this career, you can combining the two: Invent some new training apparatus that helps the boys up their batting stats without juicing on steroids."

Dean nodded simply because he had no idea what the man was talking about and it seemed easy to agree. After all, this really was a fun delusion. Dean Winchester, college graduate. _Ha_. Dean Winchester wasn't even a high school graduate. Education was not his thing—not the formal kind anyway. That was Sam's world with the libraries and the books and the studying. Sure, his younger brother called him a genius a few weeks back, but that was more if a pathetic attempt at a pep talk. Besides, Sam was just referring to the stuff they didn't teach in school. Okay, so Dean could build his own EMF meter out of a broken old walkman, but that was more about necessity and keeping his hands busy. As for spotting connections and patterns in the details of a hunt, that just came fairly easy to Dean and was mostly based on experience. Sam was the one who excelled with Latin and history and literature. Dean could build (and rebuild) things. He could think strategically, but a degree in engineering? Yeah, this was trippy. Fun, but trippy.

"So, this accident," he began again, feeling the pangs of dread. "How did it happen?"

"We don't know," John explained. "The other car spun out on the expressway leading to O'Hare airport. The driver ending up going the wrong way and hit the car bringing you to the airport head-on at nearly 80 miles per hour. The police figured your car was traveling over 60 miles per hour."

"That's a 140 mile an hour impact," Dean whistled lowly. "I walked away from that?"

"Eventually," John nodded. "You got lucky, kid. Damn lucky, thank God. The airbags helped more than they hurt you. The head injury was the most serious, but the others were nothing to ignore either. Fortunately, Chicago has great trauma doctors. You had us scared for a while, Champ, but you're bouncing back."

"You're pretty calm about this," Dean nodded. "It's making me think we've had this discussion before."

"It's good you feel that way, because we have," John nodded. "Several times in the last few weeks. That's normal, Champ. Your short term memory is still going to be affected for a little while. The doctors said that is absolutely normal and they have every reason to think it'll get better. In fact, your mother and I have noticed massive improvements."

"Yeah, but long term memory?" he wondered. Seeing as he had no recollection of this life, it seemed wise to ask.

"That'll be fine, too," John assured him. "I mean, you know who I am and who this lady is, right?"

"Sure, Bonnie and Clyde, my favorite felons," Dean nodded and smirked as his mother gave him a flat lined mouth expression. His father hung his head and grinned while shaking his head. "I mean: the best parents a forgetful guy could ask for."

"Very funny," John smirked. "Just cool it with the sarcasm. Your mother is still worried you'll keel over any minute."

"I am not," Mary said and cut her eyes sharply at him. The truth of his father's words obviously stung her, but Dean was amused by them.

"Right, no keeling, check," Dean nodded. "Hey, where's Sam?"

His parents looked at each other, unspoken words arcing between them. Mary's face grew dark and she turned her head away. John sighed and rubbed his neck. There was a strained and frozen look on his face that Dean could not read. He felt a cold knot in his stomach but forged onward.

"The memory thing might be an issue, here, I guess," Dean said cautiously. "Maybe my brains are a little scrambled, but I seem to think that I have a brother named Sam."

"You do, Dean," John nodded. "Of course, you do."

"Where is he?" Dean asked, swallowing hard, worried he would get the answer he dreaded: dead since childhood. "Was he in the car?"

"No," John shook his head. "He wasn't in the car with you."

Dean sighed and felt the tightness in his chest release a bit, but his mother's continued dark expression was not inspiring him with good feelings.

"Is he… alive?" he asked slowly.

"As far as we know," Mary scoffed.

"Mary, please," John warned.

"Whoa, what?" Dean asked quickly. "What does as far as you know mean? Where's Sammy?"

His pulse quickened and his muscles tightened. It was bad enough he got his ass thrown back in time, but if he'd been torn from his choking brother only to find himself in a place where Sam was missing, Dean was not going to be the least bit kind to who or whatever did this to them. He looked determinedly back at John who blinked and shook his head. Dean stared back questioningly.

"Your brother is at school," his father answered. "He's where he is supposed to be."

"School?" Dean repeated and exhaled slowly as he dialed back his adrenaline. Maybe things weren't that off or wrong here after all. "Stanford?"

"Well, it's good, you remembered where he went to school," John replied. "See, it's all coming back to you, except you're a little behind on things. Your brother's not at Stanford anymore. He graduated last May. He's in Chicago at law school."

"Presumably," Mary said snidely.

"Presumably?" Dean repeated. "Is he there or isn't he?"

"He is," John said forcefully. "Mary, please. Dean, your mother is just… It was a rough summer, son. All of us just need to relax a bit, okay? Don't worry yourself about anything. Your brother is fine. "

"Your father's right," Mary replied then softened her expression and tone. "I'm sorry if I made you worry, sweetheart. I'm just not pleased with your brother right now, that's all."

She was pissed at Sammy, Dean nodded then smirked. Well, he knew that feeling with regard to his brother. Looking at their mother's and putting the expression in context, he understood it better. The kid was probably being aloof or pretending he didn't remember how to call home, Dean suspected. He'd felt that way toward his brother years ago when he took off for college. Before he could think on it further, his mother interrupted with a better topic.

"Now, on to more important things," she said. "How about some breakfast?"

Dean blinked and stared back at her. As dreams or hallucinations went, this one was better than living a version of Total Recall (both the Arnie and the Colin Farrell versions). When the Jin juiced him up, his father was dead. This time, both parents and Sam were alive. Granted, he and Sam might still hate each other, but before he figured that out, he might even get breakfast made for him.

"You want to make me breakfast?" he repeated.

When she offered blueberry pancakes, he suddenly stopped caring that something horrible had likely happened to rip him from his reality into whatever this was. In fact, the more he thought about it, despite feeling lost, he couldn't think of a single reason why he should want this one to go away anytime soon when there were pancakes—his mother's homemade pancakes no less—on the way.

He stood up and offered to help at least get dishes and utensils for the table (anything to speed up the process), but was waved back into his seat with an amused chuckle before being served a glass of orange juice. He requested coffee and was denied as his father took a seat beside him and began talking about some car purchase that Dean deduced involved his work at the garage. A few minutes later, Mary served them tall stacks of pancakes and joined them at the table.

Dean felt giddy. It was a strange feeling, an embarrassing one, too. He was sitting at the dinner table, flanked by his parents, eating pancakes; he knew there was a dumbass grin on his face that would take a bazooka to wipe off. As he thought about it, he realized he could not think of a moment that he recalled ever being happier.

The conversation was light and insubstantial, but Dean couldn't have enjoyed it more. They talked about the weather, something about someone who might have been a neighbor and a parking dispute erupting downtown near the university. Dean listened, happy not to participate, and simply watch them.

"Well, time to go," John said, pushing away from the table as he finished eating.

"Where?" Dean asked. "Why?"

"Some of us don't get an off-season, kido," he chuckled. "Besides, I wouldn't want to wear out my welcome or have Mike start to think I'm giving him my half of the business. Mary, thanks for breakfast. I'll check in later. If you need anything, call me."

His mother nodded and started collecting dishes from the table. It wasn't an affectionate "have a nice day" sort of farewell, but that did not surprise Dean. His father had not been there when Dean came downstairs. He had been on the phone with his mother; she had said something about the door being unlocked for him. Doing the math (no engineering degree needed for this) Dean deduced John did not reside in the house. Again, sort of already chewed ground in Dean's memory.

His parents had been polite to each other during breakfast, cordial even, but it had not slipped Dean's notice that neither of them wore wedding rings. In his childhood memories, they fought a great deal in the months leading up to his mother's death. In fact, when he thought hard enough about it, his memory told him that they began fighting even before Sam was born, leading him to wonder if perhaps having his brother was an attempt at reconciling a failing marriage. So, whatever state of their relationship at this time, he was at least pleased they were not at each other's throats.

"I'll talk to you later, Champ," John said and clapped him lightly on the shoulder as he departed. "Take it easy today."

"As opposed to the mountain climbing I attempted yesterday," Dean smirked and got a scolding but amused eye roll in return. "Gotcha."

Dean waved to him, feeling a slight pang in his chest as his father left. He wasn't sure if he would see the man again and feared missing the chance to say a true, heartfelt goodbye to him, but this didn't seem like the right opportunity. Both his parents were on edge with worry about him. An embrace wreaking of finality surely wouldn't help matters so he opted instead for the much less satisfying casual wave and nod. John smiled back; apparently, Dean's choice was the wise one.

He then turned his attention then to the remaining parent.

"Well, I'm glad your appetite is coming back," Mary smiled at him as she ruffled his hair and began to clear the dishes from the table. "It's about time, too. I was starting to worry I'd need to force feed you. You barely even touched my soup yesterday."

"Tomato and rice?" he ventured.

"Of course," she said as she moved away toward the kitchen, turning her back on him.

"Where are you going?" Dean asked.

"To take care of the mess in the kitchen," she replied. "Unlike some people, I don't employ a maid to pick up after me."

Dean looked around and figured the remark was meant for him. He wasn't sure how to react to it, but the concept of housecleaning didn't seem important.

"Leave it for now," he said.

He didn't know how long this dream or delusion would last. Wasting it seemed criminal. While seeing his father walk away was hard, he wasn't sure he could waste time with his mother so casually. He had John in his life for nearly 30 years. Mary left him after just four and half.

"And what should I do instead?" she asked.

"Just sit here and…,"Dean swallowed hard. "Can we just sit here and… talk?"

"You want talk to me?" she repeated.

Dean shrugged then nodded. Her face split into a wide and relaxed grin as she placed the plates in the sink and returned to the table. She sat beside him and pet his hair affectionately.

"Oh honey," she cooed. "I don't know if that's the injuries or the meds taking, but I'll take it. Something tells me that once you're completely back on your feet, I'll need to threaten and beg you once again just to get you to speak with me for more than five minutes. So, I'm all ears. What do you want to talk about before you're too busy for your poor, old mother?"

He smirked at her words and blushed slightly. He was thankful no one else was around to hear them. The chick-flick score on this was one point shy of a maxipad commercial.

"What, me, too busy for you, no," he shrugged. "I'm not… ever that way… Uh, am I?"

"Since you turned 13," she nodded.

"Ouch," he grimaced. "Well, my bad. Sorry. I guess that's why I… feel like I haven't talked to you in a very, very long time."

"Oh, sweetheart," she laughed as she shook her head and smiled at him. "I'm not going to complain about you being busy because you grew up. I have friends with children your age and they can't get them to move out of the house."

_Okay, so I don't live here anymore. Makes sense with her comment about having a maid. Wonder if my maid wears those little French… No, wait, that's probably only in porn flicks. Focus, Dean._

"I just wish you would call more," Mary continued. "I feel like I'm the one who is always making the call to you. You call your father, don't you?"

Dean shrugged. He didn't know. Her expression gave him the answer, but he didn't fully understand why he would reach out to John more than her. Not that he saw a problem with having a close relationship with John. He was all for it, but he had spent his life longing for contact with his mother. The thought that he would willingly let those opportunities slide was disappointing. There was no way to judge the situation—especially seeing how this life just popped into his reality an hour earlier—so he opted to take the same approach with her that he did with his father earlier: cavalier.

"Are you giving me grief?" he wondered.

"Of course, " she grinned widely as rubbed his arm as she fixed him with a warm and affectionate expression. "That's my job, isn't it? I believe we established that I began ruining your life at age 16. I believe you announced that quite loudly just after you passed your driver's test. I'm pretty sure your father heard you clear across town. Your voice does carry when you want it to."

"Well, what the hell does a 16 year old kid know?" Dean shrugged, although, at age 16 he had known a hell of a lot more than the average kid that age.

He also made some seriously life altering decisions that year. Dropping out of school and devoting all of his time (when not watching over his brother) to hunting was the biggest. That and going all the way with Suzanne Cassavant in the projection room at that movie theater in that little town in Michigan. He grinned at the memory then caught his mother's watchful eyes on him and swallowed hard, glad she couldn't read his thoughts.

"You knew more than enough to turn you poor mother's hair gray," she sighed.

"What?" Dean scoffed. "Gray? No… No, you're not gray. You're…. sort of… platinum."

"Oh god, the charm," she groaned and fixed him with a stare. "Okay, out with, Mister. What are you trying to pull now?" Dean looked back at her blankly. "Come on. Just say it. You know very well what buttons to push with me, and you've always been a little too good at manipulating me. It's the magic of being the first born—we had to figure out this parent/child thing together and I've always felt that somehow you always had the upper hand at the end. So, what is it you want to tell me or ask me, Dean?"

"Nothing," he shook his head. "Honest. I'm just… I meant it when I said I feel like I haven't seen you in a very, very long time. I… uh… I've missed you, Mom. That's all."

His throat was tight and the lump in it threatened to choke him, but he resisted the tears he could feel boiling under the surface. She looked hard at him, no doubt anticipating some scheme or evasion, but there was none. Her expression softened and she shook her head then squeezed his hand as tears brimmed in her eyes.

"I have always felt sorry for the women of your generation," she remarked but there was a proud glint in her eyes. "They don't really stand a chance with you. It's bad enough that you're so damn handsome, but you've honed those charming(and a bit naughty) little boy skills. Talk about an unfair advantage. You get your way more often than you probably should."

She stroked his hair in a motherly fashion then pet his cheek. He felt himself blush.

"Uh, I'm not exactly a catch," he shrugged.

He supposed that was true even in this alternate reality. After all, he was hurt in an accident, and it was his parents looking after him not a girlfriend or a wife. There wasn't even a hot and mildly unethical nurse strutting around in a skimpy uniform seeing to his needs.

"Oh, you are very much a great catch," Mary disagreed. "I'm just glad you haven't let yourself be caught yet by someone who isn't worthy of you. Not that running around with a new girlfriend every few months is something I like, but I think it's wise that you aren't tied down with a serious relationship right now. You're still too young to settle down."

"Too young?" he scoffed. "I'm…" He paused and remember that it was 2005 to her and had to do some quick math. "I'm 26. That's not young."

"To you, it's not," she corrected.

"You were 25, no 24, when I was born," he recalled.

"That was a different time," she said tetchily. "My point is that I think maybe you should take some time just for yourself rather than waste your time with whoever throws herself in front of you and the photographers. I know they're all pretty, Dean, but there is more to life than a pretty face and a good time. Now, I'm not going to lecture you about your private life…"

"Really?" Dean chuckled. "'Cause it sounds like you are."

"Dean," she sighed.

"No, by all means," he nodded. "Go ahead. I don't mind…. at the moment. Lecture away."

He threw in the last bit for levity and an effort not to start her worry vibes from going into overdrive again. She raised her eyebrows for a moment but then continued as she shook her head.

"Fine, I will," she said. "I know I've said this to you a dozen times, and I know what you're going to say."

"Maybe you only think you know what I'll say," he replied and grinned.

While not one for sitting through a lecture of any kind willingly or happily, he did not mind this one in the least. It was an unbelievable chance to feel what he suspected normal was for most people. Sure, he wasn't happy to be getting the unneeded advice, especially as he had not done any of the things she was basing her opinions on, but that didn't matter. This was his mother. Talking to him. He'd take whatever he could get. And what he got was a flat stare.

She looked back at him and offered up a bored rolling-eyed expression that he instantly recognized as his own. Dean always thought he favored his father, although he knew a great deal of that was intentional on his part (keeping his hair short, wearing clothing like he did, listening to his music). There were some physical similarities between them as well. John had dark hair and deep set eyes, as did Dean. The man wore brooding expressions and rarely smiled. Dean knew he could be described in the same way, yet here, he saw something that he never expected. He was very much his mother's son. They had the same fair complexion; the same thin, straight noses; identical shaped eyes; and thick dark lashes. His mouth matched hers. A careful inspection of her face revealed a spattering of faded freckles that would nearly match up with his own.

"Oh yes, I do know what you'll say," she continued then spoke in a low tone meant to mimic his, "_Mom, I know, okay? They like getting their picture taken, big deal. I'm not marrying them; I'm just having fun, and there's no law against having a little fun._"

Dean raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

"Do I sound like that?" he wondered. "See, that doesn't sound like me as far as I'm concerned. It's kind of a girlie tone." Mary chuckled and slapped his hand playfully as he grinned shamelessly. "Okay, so maybe I _might_ say something like that, but so what? What's wrong with fun?"

In his mind, he wondered precisely what these women looked like and whether any were in the area. If he had to be here for a bit, he might as well experience the whole thing. Besides, fun sounded like… well, fun, right now. He wasn't sure where the photographers came into the equation; he would be happy to leave that part out of it.

"They're in love with the image not with you," Mary said firmly. "Dean, you deserve someone who actually loves you not just everything around you. I know; I get it. You're too busy living your to settle down; you're young and I suppose it's fun to have a new girlfriend every few weeks."

"Also saves you the trouble of remembering holidays, anniversaries and birthdays if you keep switching things up," Dean remarked casually as he nodded but stopped as he got caught in her flat, displeased stare.

"I raised you better than that statement indicates," she replied. Dean grimaced and chewed his lip. "Look, I get that it's different for you than it was for your father and I—and obviously, we should not be used as an example. Our marriage was a disaster."

"Disaster?" Dean repeated.

Granted, he would not have called it perfect, but the word disaster was a little strong from what he recalled. Then he remembered there were a lot more years in this woman's history than in the mother he knew. He wondered, with a flutter of worry in his gut, how bad things had gotten between his parents.

"With the exception of you and your brother, yes, I think disaster is a good description of what your father and I accomplished during our marriage," she said quickly, squeezing his hand lightly. "But that in itself is a lesson. People end up together for a lot of reasons but not always good ones. You father and I recognized that too late, well, not too late. I mean, we married too young and had very different expectations and reasons why we wanted to get married. I think that maybe if we'd made some better choices earlier in the marriage—like ending it when it actually fell apart rather than waiting several more painful and angry years—we wouldn't have put each other through the anguish we did. I worry sometimes that our marriage tainted you and your brother against the whole idea of marriage."

"Certainly not on my radar," Dean admitted uncomfortably. "But that's more of a personality thing on my part."

"And how much of that is influence by how your father and I behaved?" she wondered. "Look how long it took us to become civil with each other after the divorce."

"The divorce?" Dean repeated and felt like an idiot for the pang of sorrow the word caused him. Dead was much worse than divorced, yet he grieved the end of their marriage all the same. He shook his head. "Right, the divorce. That was… How long as it been?"

She looked at him oddly for a moment then thought for a moment.

"Nearly 15 years," she said, looking at him with concern. "He moved out for the last time just before your 12th birthday."

"Right," he nodded and threw out an easy detail that might reassure her as the worry lines appeared on her face again. "Just after Christmas."

She nodded and relaxed as he hoped. His gamble paid off.

"The worst Christmas ever in this house, yes," she sighed. "Your brother ran away on Christmas Eve because he was sick of us fighting. You asked to move in with Jake Thompson's family—for the same reason. We tried to keep you boys out of the court process as much as possible, but we obviously failed at that. I know you pretended like you didn't know what was going on, but we both knew that you and Sam were aware of exactly what was going on, especially when things got ugly."

"But you get along now," Dean said. He hoped that was the case. They seemed genuine during breakfast. He hoped he would have noticed if they were faking civility. If not, he was going to revisit the possibility he did have a head injury.

"Well, you and your brother being adults helps," she replied. "Custody issues never brought out the best in either of us, but now we've… matured. It took a lot of work and patience from both your father and I to put the past behind us., but you know that your father and I are… friends now."

"Friends?" Dean repeated. "As in friendly friends?"

There it was. The thing he sensed between them when his father was there. A lot of it was simply a shared worry for him, but there was also something a little more. It might be just the closeness of two people who had raised two children, but Dean didn't think so. For someone who had moved out of the house 15 years earlier and fought with her in a custody battle, John Winchester seemed quite comfortable in the house that was not his home.

"You know I hate the terms hook up and friends with benefits," Mary scowled. "Your father and I have a… complicated relationship. I would hope, now that you're an adult, that you would have let any childhood thoughts of us getting back together permanently to fade just because he occasionally still spends the night in my…"

"Oh, hey, no, whoa!" Dean shook his head and waved off her explanation then covered his ears for a moment. "That's just… I'll want to go back into a coma with that visual in my head now."

While no prude when it came to sexual relationships, Dean shirked at the thought of his parents in one. He knew they obviously had carnal knowledge of each other—he and Sam existed after all—but parental sex was not something he needed in his head. In his memory, he recalled an acceptable level of public displays of affection, simple kisses and arm over the shoulders kind of contact, but nothing more than that.

"Maybe now you know a little how I felt when that redhead you broke up with last year talked to that reporter and said that she'd go back to you in a heartbeat because you were the best lay she'd ever…," Mary began then stopped and shook her head.

"Wait, what was her name?" Dean wondered. Redheads were generally fun, a bit dangerous for certain, but fun all the same in his experience. However, his mother's glare ended his questioning.

"My point," she said forcefully, "is that while your father and I are at least friends, that is primarily because of you and your brother. We share a bond that not even a terrible marriage and nearly incompatible personalities could tear apart completely. If it wasn't for the two of you all these years, we'd surely have killed each other or made it a point to forget we ever met. As it is, we have forged a reasonable and cordial friendship that is platonic… usually."

She smirked for a moment and Dean shook his head.

"Seriously, the 'usually' and the little smile thing at the end there is not helping my recovery any," he shuddered.

"Dean, be serious for a moment," Mary continued.

"Oh, I am," he groaned. "When does that short-term memory glitch kick in?"

Mary shook her head and sighed as she continued.

"This whole discussion started because I was explaining to you that I worry about you and this revolving door of women in your life," she said. "If anything good comes of you being hurt, I think maybe it is you taking some time to think about your life and what you want it to be. This is a good opportunity to take your time and think about who is good for you, not just who is in it just fun. You've earned your reputation as a playboy and that doesn't attract the right kind of woman for you."

Dean laughed. She was lecturing him on his sex life, but tactfully calling it his love life. She was half a step shy of giving him the 'time to grow up speech' he heard other people got sometimes. Her greatest fear for him was a shallow, self-centered, gold digging broad more interested in some claim to fame (he hadn't figured out how he was suppose to supply that yet). She held no worries that anything evil or awful might happen to him. It was perfectly, almost hilariously, normal. As such, he found himself chuckling.

"Don't laugh at me, Dean," she said shaking her finger at him but she smiled. "I'm your mother. I'm allowed to have opinions about who you should be with and who you shouldn't. Just promise me this: You won't date any more models or actresses.'

"Models or actresses?" he repeated wide-eyed.

That was a little more upscale than he was expecting. Then again, he'd spent a night with an actual angel once. Seeing his expression, Mary shook her head and explained herself.

"You know I don't like any of them," Mary replied. "I swear, every time I see you with one of those women I just want to tackle them and shove a cheese burger down their skinny little throats."

He gripped her hand as he laughed. His side hurt from the sudden guffaw, and he found himself having to massage the stitch in the area as he wiped a mirthful tear from his eyes. He shook his head as he caught his breath.

"Okay, Hollywood and runways are off the list, check," he nodded. "Not a problem. Any other requests while I'm here on the mend?"

Her eyes smiled at him but tears lurked just beneath the surface as she smiled at him. She swallowed hard and her hand trembled a bit as she caressed his cheek again.

"Don't you ever scare me like this again," she said quietly. "I know it wasn't your fault, but honey, when you got hurt… I've never been so scared in all my life—and trust me, that is saying something. If anything bad ever happened to you or your brother, I'd…."

His heart tore in two as she choked up and shivered. Instinctively, he reached for her and pulled her into an embrace that he felt was for himself just as much as her.

"It's okay, Mom," he said.

Dean hugged her, tightly, and felt his own shivers in his stomach as his head throbbed a bit with the pressure of holding back tears. He released her after a moment and quickly wiped any traitorous moisture from his eyes. As if sensing his unease and mild embarrassment, she straightened her shoulders and held her chin higher as she fixed him with a challenging expression and pointed at him in an almost scolding fashion.

"You just promise me you are going to live until you are 103, Dean Winchester," Mary commanded as she wiped her own eyes. "I'm not taking no for answer, so if you ever want me to make you blueberry pancakes again, you will give me your word right now."

"Hmm,103?" he repeated. "You promise me you'll live to at least126 and you have a deal."

"Only if you get me a grandchild by the time I'm 56," she said then leaned over and kissed his forehead. "That way I can know my great grandchildren, too. By the way, I'll save you the time doing the math for your end of the bargain: You have five years."

Dean opened his mouth to say something, but found he had no words. He had no idea how to respond. Instead, he sat at the table feeling a little weak and uncertain. His head felt cloudy and not from any injury or medications. This was sensory overload. He knew, even though it was impossible, that he was sitting in the kitchen in his childhood home in Lawrence. He knew his mother was here, alive and well, and had just casually given him marching orders to find a nice girl and reproduce with her. He sat at the table watching his mother now doing the dishes, hoping it didn't seem too pervy. A knot caught in his throat and a swarm of butterflies filled his stomach. Despite what logic was telling him, his gut was telling him there was no other explanation than that this was real.

After a while, he stood and wandered through the house with a multitude of long buried memories flooding his mind: the creaks in the floor where the old hardwood planks still rubbed against each other; the small notches in the doorframe by the back door where he stood on each birthday to have his height measured. The last time he saw them, the notch was roughly a yard from the floor. He looked more closely and found notches showing many more years than he ever got in this house. On the casing opposite, were ones for Sam. He grinned as he saw they were roughly equal until they stopped at about age 13. He smiled as he supposed that meant gigantor was still a freak of nature in this world, too. Then, Dean drifted up the stairs, thinking of the last time he climbed those steps as a resident of the house.

That was the night of the fire; the night his family was torn apart; the night his mother died. He wandered down the hall to the room that had been Sam's nursery. Now, it was a plain bedroom. A dark plaid comforter covered the bed. A desk sat under the window. There was a bookcase on the opposite wall with a collection of books. The closet held a variety of other supplies, Christmas decorations and a small stack of packing boxes marked with the words "high school" in Sam's handwriting. Dean nodded. The kid was now supposedly at law school now, having just graduated from college. It made sense he wouldn't have much of a presence in the house.

Dean left the quiet room and headed down the hall to the room that was his. He paid it little close attention when he woke that morning. He stepped over the threshold and felt the same detachment he sensed in Sam's room. The only difference in here was the style of the décor. The bed was covered in a solid colored comforter. The walls held framed pictures: A picture of a rocket lift off and a few baseball parks. He recognized Wrigley Field in both the actual photo that hung on one wall and the larger water color that hung over the bed. The closet had a few more items than Sam's—these appeared to be tossed in there recently and hastily. He pulled the luggage out and found clothing that would fit him. It appeared to have been recently packed from the lack of creases in the shirts. He supposed the clothing was gathered from wherever he lived before the accident that allegedly landed him back in Lawrence. The clothing appeared to be casual but high-end—much nicer than the typical jeans and flannel he wore as a hunter.

None of this still told him how he got here or who he was. Sure, he knew his name and those of his family members, but beyond that, this Dean Winchester was a mystery. He did something for a living that apparently made him someone who got photographed. That his mother wasn't embarrassed by him ruled out career criminal and porn star, but there was a lot of ground in-between those two options. He had a college degree, according to his father. Engineering? He shook his head. That sounded a little too out of reach.

_And what the hell was up with Dad? _

John had been… happy. Dean didn't recall ever seeing the guy so relaxed as he had that morning. Even in the instants when the old man seemed on the cusp of worry, he was calm. There was none of his high strung urgency that Dean knew so well.

And divorced. His parents were divorced? Not that it was a huge shock to Dean, he recalled their fights when he was a child, but it still surprised him a bit. Of course, they seemed to get along well enough. What was it his mother said? They learned to be civil and were maybe a bit more than just friends now? He didn't want to think more about what that meant. Getting lectured about his mysterious sex life was one thing; hearing details of his parents actual one was enough to make him wretch. There were some mysteries the universe should keep to itself in his opinion.

Mysteries, he paused on the word. With a shrug, he cleared his throat and spoke quietly, knowing he did not need to shout to be heard if his wingman was able to connect.

"Cas?" Dean whispered and looked toward the ceiling hopefully. "Hey, Cas, you around here anywhere? Cas? Calling on the more profound bond here, so Dean to Castiel, you read me? No? Nothing?"

There was no response. Not that that meant anything. If he truly was back in time, straight-laced Angel of the Lord Castiel did not yet know Dean Winchester. Their bond, profound or otherwise, had not yet been forged. So, if this was an alternate and previous time, then perhaps Dean wasn't even on angel radar at all. While he would miss Cas, there was also something very settling about the thought that Michael and the God Squad wouldn't be paying him any attention at all.

But that seemed unlikely.

His mother's reference to what it took to scare her resonated with Dean. She had a secret here: her past as a hunter. Apparently, if he read her correctly, that was still accurate, and why wouldn't it be? She and his father were only put together by a marksman cupid because Heaven decreed it. That meant the whole destiny bloodline thing was still in the mix somewhere, which meant, Castiel, the Dr. Sheldon Cooper of this little Big Bang episode, was still out there somewhere as well… most likely.

Of course, that didn't mean he would come to help Dean. His first few encounters with Castiel were not friendly. Dean had to win him over, and how he did that at all remained a bit of a mystery. And, even in the life he knew currently, Dean couldn't even be sure Cas would come help him lately. Ever since returning from Purgatory, something was off with his winged little buddy. He didn't know how he busted out after Dean escaped. He would disappear for weeks on end without explanation. He didn't always come when called. The knot in Dean's stomach said this was a bad thing. The last time Cas went MIA like this, he got delusions of grandeur to the point of thinking he was God. Sam sensed it too and now, with the gates of Hell just needing the right kind of nudge to close, they didn't have time to let anyone on the team break ranks. Which meant, Dean realized with a sinking feeling in his bones, he needed to get out of this better strange twist on It's a Wonderful Life, where he was finding out that his existence could be much better if only his mother had lived.

Still, staying was tempting.

If he knew it was real, if he knew it could last, what was the point of returning? And how the hell was he supposed to return anyway when he had no idea how he got to this nirvana.

Of course, that was the problem. This was nearly perfect. Therefore, it couldn't be real, and even if it was, there was no way his life could be this good and last. Sighing with resignation, Dean returned to his inspection of the room, searching for something that might give him a clue to who he was and what he did or perhaps how he got back here, but he found nothing. He didn't see a laptop in the house either so his research efforts were hampered even more: First, by his lack of a too-tall research junkie; and next, by the lack of avenues for him to do the dreaded task himself. He would need to find a computer or someone who could help fill in the gaps without raising too many suspicions.

In the middle of his pondering, the door to the bedroom opened.

"Honey, I need to head downtown to run some errands," Mary said. "Will you be okay here by yourself for a while?"

"I guess," he shrugged. "You sure you can trust me not to throw a party and invite some strippers over while you're gone? You're cool with me and strippers, right? They're not really actresses; they're more performers."

He didn't know why he said it. It certainly wasn't anything he ever pictured himself saying to his mother. Then again, his view of her until that morning was stuck on the permanent pause of a four-year-old's perceptions. In response, she offered him a flat, scolding stare that lacked shock or surprise, leading him to believe the comment wasn't precisely out of character. He grinned in return with a shrug. It was childish, but he wasn't sure how to have a adult conversation with his mother and sarcasm was his default language. After all, the last time he actually spoke to her they discussed what bedtime story he should get and whether she or his father should read it. As he recalled, she won out on that.

"If you're worried, you could take me with you to make sure I behave," he continued.

"The nosy people of the world still think you're in Chicago," she replied, which just added to his list of questions that needed answering. "Being seen in public will just bring them out in droves on the front lawn."

"Okay," he nodded. "Well, can I go see Dad then? I know he was just here and said he'd check in later, but… I'll go nuts just standing around here with nothing to do. Daytime TV sucks. Do you think he'd mind?"

This was his opening, he knew. He could get her to drop him off. Spend a few minutes with his father and then go in search of a library or someplace where he could boost a computer. The University of Kansas was in Lawrence so finding one would not be a problem.

"I'm certain he wouldn't," she said with a puzzled expression then shrugged. "I'm just surprised you want to chance being seen at all. Well, if hanging out at the shop is what you want to do, I guess it'll be okay. It's not like the whole city traipses through there during the day. Just give him a call so he knows you're coming—in case he thinks it would be quieter for you to stay here."

She nodded and stepped out of the room. Dean looked to the phone beside the bed and shrugged. He had no idea what the number was. He didn't see a phonebook so looking up the number wasn't an option either. There didn't seem to be a cell phone lying around among his things. Dean shrugged. If the old man didn't mind a visitor, Dean didn't think not calling would be a big deal. Instead of making the call, he picked through the luggage and pulled out some clothing. The jeans were dark with perfectly designed faded spots and miniscule tears; the green shirt was the softest cotton he'd ever felt. He stepped into the bathroom and decided shaving wasn't needed. The day old stubble look was typical for him. So, after brushing his teeth, he stripped off his T-shirt and stared in horror at his chest. Two things struck him instantly: He had no tattoo and there was a bright pink surgical scar on his chest.

Ignoring the missing ink, he instead pressed his fingers against the scar lightly and felt a twinge from the protesting nerve endings. Someone, apparently someone with training, sewed him up in the not too distant past. Dean thought back to the details dropped by his father: broken ribs and soft tissue damage. That would account for the healing mark. He took several moments and looked at the rest of his body. He had been healed of his wallpaper of scars several times in the last few years, but he always seemed to pick up new ones. This one, however, was larger than most though not nearly as conspicuous as some previously (how could anyone logically explain a palm print seared into your shoulder anyway?). Still, this one bothered Dean in that he had no recollection of getting it, and it wasn't in the course of his work that he earned it. This was apparently something done to him when he was… innocent. He shuddered at the word. Dean Winchester wasn't innocent. He wasn't a bystander. He wasn't a civilian. He was a hunter…

Or he had been until he wound up here.

He might have continued that pondering but for his mother's call up the stairs to see if he was still leaving with her. He answered that he was and hastily finished getting ready. He dressed quickly and grabbed the leather jacket he saw hanging in the closet. It was a sleek, supple, black leather that slipped through his fingers like butter. He guessed it would run easily three grand. He slipped it onto his arms—it fit perfectly as though tailored specifically for him—and slid his hand into the pocket. In one, he found a pair of Oakely sunglasses, the $600 kind. Dean laughed quietly. The jacket and the shades were worth roughly half of what he would make in three months of hustling pool.

He looked in the mirror and, shamefully he knew, admired the view. Maybe it was vain and maybe it was kind of girlie, but he grinned thinking he looked like he should model this stuff. Then, for a horrified second, he wondered if he was a model. His mother made a comment about him and models and indicated photographers were a part of his world. His flesh crawled at that thought. Yeah, he was good looking, he got that. Plenty of women had told him so over the years, but to make a living just because his parents gave him the right genes was… degrading. He decided he'd rather be a porn star.

Dean shook his head then automatically reached for his back and found he was not carrying a weapon. That made him feel naked and a bit jittery. He had no flask of holy water even. He pulled back the neck of his Henley and looked again at his chest. No tattoo, he shook his head again. He was completely unprotected. That made his stomach churn. He took a deep breath and figured he would need to locate a suitable ink artist that day to rectify this situation. Then he straightened his jacket and felt another bunch in the pocket opposite where the sunglasses were found. He reached inside and pulled out a smooth, black, leather wallet. Inside were a few credit cards. While it was surprising to see they were black cards, denoting a soaring credit line, his chin nearly dropped to his chest to see they were adorned with his actual name: Dean Winchester. He laughed at that, nearly as much as he did when he peeled $220 in bills out of the wallet as well.

"Whatever I do, I get paid very nicely for it apparently," he muttered as his mother called to him yet again to join her to leave.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ More to come. Thanks to all the "Dark Angel" fans who followed my work into the world of "Supernatural." As always, I will update as I am able (fanfiction is my cure for writer's block on my novels). I thank you in advance for the reviews.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Price of Happiness (Chapter 2)

Notes: First off, just to let you know this story is going to have a slow and methodical build up to the action. Dean has to see what he's really got here (this new life) in order for him to struggle with the choice of which life to keep as his own. Also, a few people commented in reviews and private messages about Dean's rant regarding a beloved New England state. I'm glad you laughed at it. I am a native Vermonter myself and feel everything he said has a ring of truth (okay, maybe not the hippie part, but that was a nod to Jared Padalecki for his recent Tweet). There will be a future fanfic with the Winchesters that takes place in the Green Mountains, but that will have to wait until this one is done. Thanks for the reviews!

* * *

Mary reluctantly let her son exit the car in the parking lot of Guenther & Winchester. The garage was not in the location Dean recalled it residing. It was in a different section of town, a nicer section. From the façade, it appeared to be a profitable garage that also sold classic cars. There was a small but enviable and shiny collection of muscles cars, hot rods and classic beauties in the lot; a few others sat inside a glassed-in showroom. Signs directed service customers to an area around the back for maintenance and repairs.

Dean promised his mother he would be fine. He half expected her to hold his hand and walk him into the showroom for all the fuss she made.

_This must be what the first day of school is like. No wonder kids get so embarrassed._

After assuring her that he felt fine and that there was no reason he might collapse walking the 20 feet from the car into the building, she drove off. He felt a pang of sadness as she did, but treating the moment like a final goodbye would have just worried her more and ruined his plans for spending the day doing research. He waved to her then dug his hands into his jacket against the chill of the fall morning as he walked into the showroom.

The room was wide and had three shiny cars filling most of the space. The two nearest the door were a silver 1956 Corvette and a cherry red 1965 Mustang Fastback. Both sat with their hoods up to reveal the spotless engine compartments. Dean whistled lowly as he passed by both, admiring the restorations. Along the far wall, sat three cubicals with a desk and computer. Two were empty. In the third, a thin sales associate with a hawkish nose was talking on the phone. He glanced briefly at Dean, then quickly ignored him by turning his back.

_Douche_, Dean thought instantly as he rolled his eyes. However, rather than dwell on being snubbed, Dean was drawn immediately to the third car sitting at the far end of the room.

She was shiny and black and appeared brand new, as if she had just rolled off the assembly line—just the way she was supposed to look. He smiled and ran his hand affectionately along the bumper, feeling like he was greeting an old friend. Just touching the Impala made him feel grounded.

"Hello, Baby," Dean whispered to the car as he peered inside. "Looking good, sweetheart."

The interior was spotless, but he noted that Sam's toy soldier was not wedged into the ash tray as it should have been. He wrinkled his nose at that, but otherwise, he could find no flaws in his beloved auto. He was so lost in the moment, he never heard anyone come up behind him.

"A thing of beauty for sure, but don't fall in love with her," a man's gravelly voice said. "She's not for sale."

"No kidding," Dean said turning to face him. He slowly recognized him: Mike Guenther, his father's partner in the garage. "She's priceless."

"Jesus!" Mike gaped and thrust out his hand and clamped it on Dean's. "Dean! I didn't see you come in. Boy, are you a sight for sore eyes. Damn it's good to see you."

"Uh, yeah," Dean said as the man pumped his hand firmly. "You, too… I guess."

Mike was a short, rotund man with a ruddy complexion, gnarled hands and a balding crown. His teeth, were yellowed from years of smoking and deep creases set in the corners of his dark brown eyes. He wore a pair of kakis and a dark blue polo shirt with the letters G&W embroidered in the left corner. Apparently, Mike was less involved in the hands-on repairs now.

"I thought it was strange John came in today," Mike continued. "I was sure he'd be heading back Chicago. He didn't tell me you were in town. Don't worry, your secret's safe here, kid. So, I guess you're doing a hell of a lot better than everyone thought."

Dean shrugged, wondering what shape he was supposed to be in if everyone thought he should be down for the count. Again, silence was a fitting response in his mind, at least until he knew more about his current situation.

"Well, I'm damn glad for that," Mike beamed and clapped him hard on the arm. "We were all praying for you—even old bastards like me who haven't seen the inside of a church since the day I got married back in '74."

"Uh, thanks," Dean said awkwardly. "So is, um, my Dad… available?"

"For you, hell yes," Mike chuckled. "Did he know you were coming?"

"No," Dean shook his head. "I sort of talked my mother into letting me out of the house. Kind of like a day furlough."

"I gotcha," Mike nodded knowingly. "Mary's has been stuck to you like glue for months, kid. If you ask me, you look all better. I wouldn't know a thing happened to you if I hadn't seen it on the news and talked to John about it. You feeling okay?"

"Mostly," Dean shrugged.

"That was one hell of a wreck," Mike nodded. "Damn modern cars with all their plastic… If they made 'em the way they made this beauty, you wouldn't have had a scratch." He said and pat the hood of the Impala lovingly. Dean smiled, mostly agreeing. "Crazy-assed driver with his… It's a damn good thing he died or even my wife would have wanted to…. Oh. Sorry, Dean. I didn't mean to bring up all that."

"It's fine," Dean shrugged and shook his head. "I… have no idea what... I mean, I don't remember a thing about it. So, no harm no foul."

"Yeah, John said you had a little amnesia about the accident," Mike nodded. "Kind of a blessing maybe. Certainly to be expected considering how badly you were hurt. Well, you're on the mend now and that's all that matters. I can't believe your old man didn't tell me they snuck you into town. Too bad it's a school day—Mikey would have wanted to see you."

"Mikey?" Dean repeated.

"My grandson, little Mike," Mike answered. "He's your biggest fan."

"Right," Dean nodded. "A fan."

A doorway leading to the service area was slowly filling with faces peering around the door frame. Several customers were watching with fixed curiosity from the lobby area. Dean noted their interest and stared back, feeling like he should slip his sunglasses on and go find a dark corner to hid in for a bit. Noticing this, Mike nodded and murmured that he would go talk to them to "take care of things." As he left, he laughed and clapped him on the arm.

"Good to see you, Dean," he beamed. "Don't be a stranger, and don't worry about the season."

"Right, the season," Dean replied. "No worries."

_Season? What season?_

Was he a weatherman? Dean shuddered at that thought, again hoping instead for something more respectable like… well, he was again drawn to the porn options if cameras were still involved. As Mike departed, Dean heard another voice join the conversation. John was approaching from the open doorway behind the Impala.

"Hey, Champ," John appeared. "What are you doing here?"

"Finding out about my fans, I guess," Dean shrugged. "Should I be worried about that?"

He pointed to the people jockeying to get a space at the door to look at him. There was something easier about revealing his lack of understanding to his father.

"Hometown hero returns, or so they suspect," John shook his head. "The news folks are still reporting that you're in Chicago. Your mother and I figured it would take them a few more days to figure out you left. Your cover might be blown, son. Chief Dayton said they'll keep the camera vultures away as much as they can if you want."

"I don't care, I guess," Dean shrugged. If the police chief was willing to offer some protection, then he figured that meant he wasn't on a most wanted list, which was another good point to this side of the looking glass. Rather than ponder it further, Dean turned back to something he did understand: the Impala. "So, the car looks good."

"You're complimenting my car?" John looked at him oddly. "I guess that bump on the head finally knocked some automotive sense into you."

Dean blinked a few times and look back at his car apologetically, feeling like he owed her an explanation. Of course, that little bit of intel from his father confused him further. This Dean apparently didn't like or didn't know about cars (what idiot with any automotive savvy wouldn't admire a '67 Chevy with a 327 V-8 4-barrel?). That also explained why Dean didn't work with his father at the garage. His degree was allegedly in mechanical engineering—whatever the hell that was. Still, surely it meant he knew something about engines. He shook his head as he again silently begged the car for forgiveness.

_Forgive me, sweetheart, the Dean you know is a moron; just know, that I will always love and respect you._

"I've spent years trying to convince you boys that my Impala is a thing of beauty," John continued to marvel.

"Well, it worked," Dean remarked then nodded. "You're right. She's beautiful."

John laughed loudly and gripped his shoulder bracingly.

"Usually, that kind of sucking up and manipulating only works on your mother, Champ," John said. "But I'll take it—if only to fulfill a father's dream. Maybe now at least one of my boys won't cringe if I leave her to you in my will someday."

Sam didn't like cars, Dean inferred. Not surprising. So far, what he had heard about his little brother in this reality was on par with the Sam he knew growing up. He found it a bit odd yet comforting to find out that, while the Dean his parents knew was notably different from Dean himself, Sam sounded strikingly similar. Of course, that also made sense. Sam always knew precisely who he was and fought with anyone to tried to change him. He stuck his sizeable and stubborn toes in and held his ground like… well, like a friggin' Marine. It took years, but after their father's death, Dean had finally begun to see how similar his father and his brother were to each other; at that revelation, their lifelong running battles made a lot more sense. Dean knew he was the one who didn't have that confident and rigid sense of self. He was who he needed to be at any given moment, did what he was ordered and pushed aside any feelings he had about what he might like or want.

Dean turned his eyes to his father and caught his easy, warm smile again. It was intoxicating on some level. He never looked at Dean that way growing up. His earliest childhood memories didn't have enough detail to them to remember the guy smiling. The one picture he had from that time showed him grinning with the rest of his family at the camera, but it was a single picture and seemed to Dean like more of a dream than a reality. Now, here he was, again receiving that easy and warm grin from the guy, the same one he got during breakfast. The man was genuinely happy and had no problem or issue expressing that.

Seeing it made Dean ache and feel settled at the same time. He was a bit angry and jealous. His father had been an obsessive son of a bitch once revenge got him hooked on hunting. He sacrificed everything, including his children's childhoods, to kill the creature that murdered his wife. Dean understood the urge, but even as a little kid Dean at least tried to preserve some sense of childhood for Sam. Meanwhile, his father (the man who never smiled at him or gave him any sense of affection or warmth) treated Dean like his training recruit and made him spend his earliest years in a perpetual boot camp mode. This Dean apparently never knew that side of John Winchester because it turned out that, absent the evil deeds of a yellow-eyed SOB, John Winchester was apparently a good family man.

"What are you doing here?" John asked, dragging Dean out of his thoughts. "How did you get here anyway?"

"Mom dropped me off," he said.

"She let you out?" John asked with surprise. "I was a little worried this morning she was going to spoon-feed you."

"I may have threatened to invite over strippers while she ran some errands," Dean shrugged. John merely shook his head and grinned. Whether that was approval or belief that Dean might do that (or perhaps had done that in the past) he couldn't tell. "I just… wanted to get out of the house. She was okay with me coming here as long as you were, um, babysitting me, I guess. Unless you're too busy and then I'll just…"

"No, I'm never too busy for you, Slugger—get up to my office so you can stay out of the public eye a bit more," he nodded and jerked is head to the side for Dean to follow him.

Dean nodded and agreed to follow him. He had hoped the old man would be too busy for an impromptu visit. Dean was then going to hightail it to a library to start some research. Surrendering to a parental babysitter ruined those plans. This, he realized, is going to be harder than I thought.

"I knew you'd get fed up with her treating you like an invalid eventually, but I thought it would take more than a weekend of being home," John said as he climbed the stairs. "I know how much it bothers you when she does her momma bear act and tries to protect you from everything on the planet. Just be patient with her, okay? She will always treat both you boys like you're still little kids, but right now, even I see some value in it for you. After all that's happened to you recently, it's… necessary. For the moment. Just keep reminding yourself that she means well. She just can't help hovering around you. Do what the doctors say and everything will go back to normal again soon."

"Right," Dean nodded. "Normal."

He wasn't sure what else to say. A retired and in-the-closet hunter was his nurse/maid and apparently (even before this alleged accident) treated everything from a mosquito to a deadly disease like a threat to her children. On some level, Dean felt comforted knowing that she cared so much for her children. On another, he felt a bit suffocated by it already. Still, any opportunity to spend time with her wasn't going to be wasted by bitching she "hovered" too much around him.

Rather than comment on it, he followed his father up a small flight of stairs into a spacious office. The walls were bright and adorned with pictures of sleek, classic cars, showing the bodies and the engines. There was a leather sofa with a glass coffee table covered with magazines also filled with cars. On the large desk was a laptop computer and several framed photos. Dean approached it and looked at the collection.

His eyes were drawn instantly to photo in the corner. It was of Sam standing between his parents, towering over them, as he wore a black robe, mortarboard and tassel. He smiled widely at the camera, his hair still worn long and shaggy. Dean returned the grin unconsciously and proudly. _Look at you, Mr. College Boy. Way to go, Sammy._

"Graduation?" Dean remarked.

"Yeah, that's last May," John nodded with a smile.

"What geek," Dean chuckled. "The hat suits him."

John sighed and then turned a similar photo toward Dean to show him also in graduation regalia. Dean shuddered at it. His grin was near as wide as Sam's but showed a few more teeth, like he had just been caught doing something a little naughty. Dean rolled his eyes then placed the picture face down on the desk. John chuckled and put it back where it belonged as Dean continued to look at the photos gathered there and hanging on the wall behind the desk. Dean looked next to a picture, apparently taken in the last few years if the length of Sam's hair was any indication. It showed he and Sam seated on either side of John oblivious to the camera. They appeared to be at some sporting event from the multitude of seats and people around them. Dean turned the picture toward his father with a raised eyebrow expression.

"I never showed you that one?" John wondered. "Mike took it a few years back. That's the basketball game we went to when you boys were home for Christmas back in '03. We got tickets to see the Jayhawks playing the Bruins. I thought you'd be torn, Kansas vs. UCLA, your alma mater."

"Screw UCLA," Dean muttered.

John laughed and nodded as he muttered something that sounded like "atta boy" under his breath. Dean nodded. Apparently, his reaction was expected and correct. He was glad. At least this version of himself had the right taste in college basketball teams. His mind flashed quickly to the marathon drive he and Sam made in 2009 to see their beloved Jayhawks play. Sam might not be a sports fan, but at least he got the important stuff right, Dean thought.

Dean looked carefully at the picture. The Winchester trio was watching the game intensely, not precisely showing any closeness or affection for each other, but they were together and that meant a lot to Dean. He and Sam never got to do the whole male-bonding over sports thing with their Dad. They did the chop-off-the-evil-friggin'-thing's head stuff a lot; the burn that bitch's bones thing, but kicking back like regular fans to watch a game just never happened.

"Kansas won, right?" Dean asked. It was more of a hope than anything. While basketball was not his preferred sport to watch, he always picked the Jayhawks to win the tournament. It was a sentimental choice, he knew, but that they were usually a top seed didn't make them a bad choice either.

"Yep, 87-70," John nodded. "Just made my Christmas with you two that much better, considering it was nearly a total failure. Remember, we didn't think Sam was going to make it home? There was that big storm over the Rockies grounding flights. You got in the day before, but he didn't arrive until an hour before tip-off. Your mother was pissed that we picked him up the airport and went directly to the field house."

John shook his head. There was a slight scowl in his eyes that reinforced his mother's assertion earlier that things were not always blissful between the two still. Dean didn't want to know what the alleged custody battle during their divorce looked like. He knew all too well how fierce people could fight to keep their family. His parents squaring off against each other probably looked a little something like a version of Clash of the Titans. Of course, while the thought of his parents battling each other was unsettling, the thought that they might have done so simply to keep he and his brother made him feel oddly good. Being wanted for who he was felt foreign to him. In his life, he only felt wanted out of necessity rather than choice.

That territoriality over the Winchester boys and the possible rift it caused between the parents brought Dean's mind back to another question he had.

"Why's Mom mad at Sam?" Dean asked as he looked at another picture of his brother, this one apparently from a school play in high school.

It was odd thinking of his mother being mad at either he or his brother. The truth was he felt a little awkward around her at the moment. She was a stranger and he worried that his (perhaps glorified ) memory of her might suffer from whatever was going on that brought him to this place and time. He still thought of her as he did when he was a child: pretty and perfect and sorely missed. Now, he was here with her and she was treating him a bit like a child but mostly like a mother who had raised him for 20-plus years and had some definite opinions about who he was and how he should live his life. Jumping so abruptly into an adult parent/child relationship made him nervous. Being around his father felt more natural; that the man was more easy-going was odd but something he could adjust to without difficulty. Dean simply didn't know how to react to the anger and displeasure in his mother's eyes and voice when she spoke about Sam. He couldn't remember her ever even scolding either of them in his limited memory of her. Then again, he had only been four and Sam was just an infant when she died. He didn't suppose either of them did much that merited anger from the woman at that time.

"That's between them, son," John shook his head. "Best if you stay out of it."

He then handed Dean a frame from the wall behind the desk. Dean had seen it when he approached the desk but had paid it little attention because it wasn't a family photo. It was some cover of a magazine that was framed. Now, holding it in his hands Dean felt his jaw drop. He recognized his own image in the picture and felt the blood drain from his face.

It was a framed cover of Sports Illustrated. He was at the center of the cover shot being held up in the air by a group of men wearing baseball uniforms. From the arms-raised pose and the evident shout on his face, it was a celebration. The team, apparently his team, had just won something. From the scope of the background and the elation in the photo, it was something large and remarkable. Dean wasn't sure what was more astounding: Realizing that he evidently played baseball for a living or the fact that the uniforms look suspiciously like those worn by the perpetually cursed Chicago Cubs.

"Now that was a World Series," John said grinning.

At the words "World Series," Dean nearly choked on his tongue, but he controlled it with a swallow and a faked, dry cough. He blinked several times and stared at the picture more.

"Right down the to the wire," John continued proudly. "A heart stopper: Put it in the win column in Game 7, ninth inning. Greatest game ever played." He tapped those very words on the magazine cover. "It's no wonder the hospital got buried in flowers and balloons and crap when you were in the hospital. That whole city will always love you, Champ."

"Chicago?" Dean said blinking hard. "Chicago loves… me?"

Sure, he'd saved the city from extinction by meeting the horseman, Death, for pizza and agreeing to let his brother give his body over to Satan, but the only people still alive who knew about that were he and Sam. Cas and Crowley and Death knew, too, but they weren't precisely alive. The City of Chicago certainly knew nothing of it.

However, to prove his point, John pulled a laminated newspaper article off the shelf behind the desk. The headline proclaimed: "_Chi-town is Win-town: Winchester Lifts Curse_." Dean read the words and felt his eyes grow wide. His hands shook as he held the pictures. John laid a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Your mother didn't like it when that radio commentator called you Voodoo," John chuckled.

"Yeah, well, voodoo doesn't break curses," Dean said absentmindedly then grimaced at his slip up.

"No, but you do," John beamed proudly. "You ended nearly a century of heartbreak and failure. I think you earned the adoration, kido."

Dean peered at the news clipping. The date was October 18, 2004—roughly a year earlier in this timeline. In Dean's own timeline, he had been with his father in Rhode Island during that time to deal with the ghost of an ornery sea captain haunting a coastal home. In this world, apparently, he had been playing baseball. In Dean's recollection, the last time the Cubs won the Series was 1906. His knowledge of his own time told him that 2004 Chicago did not even play in that World Series.

"But Boston…," he began as he recalled 2004 was the year that the Boston Red Sox won the World Series, finally breaking their own "curse."

"Yeah, Boston," John nodded. "Curse versus curse. Series of the century. Kid, when you do it, you do it big. Chicago against Boston. The country went nuts—baseball fever was an epidemic. Most watched World Series in history—38 million viewers, a million more than the most watched Series prior to it, which was…"

"When Boston played the Mets in 1986," Dean recalled, nodding as he remembered watching the games on the floor of Bobby Singer's living room while his father was off hunting a chupacabra in New Mexico.

"Too bad for Boston, yet again," John chuckled. "Guess next time they'll think twice before they pass on a hot rookie prospect from Kansas, huh? Talk about some bad Karma. They passed on you in the draft and again in that offer from Chicago in 2002. To top it off, their GM makes those none too flattering remarks about 'a pretty boy from the wheat fields' only being a good ballplayer in the movie 'The Natural.' So what did you do? Stole the World Series from them two years later. That's payback. I mean, they were favored, what, seven to one but… oh well."

Dean gave him an uncertain look that either the man didn't see or chose to ignore as he filled in the details willingly.

"Yeah, great Series," Dean nodded slowly.

"Best I've ever seen—best anyone's ever seen—thrilling, amazing, miraculous, you pick the word," John crowed. "When you guys dropped Games 1 and 2, it nearly put me in the ground."

John grimaced and groaned.

"Uh, sorry?" Dean shrugged a weak apology.

"Sorry?" John shook his head sternly, reminding Dean of the ex-Marine he knew as his father. "Oh, sorry doesn't do it justice, kid. Your old man nearly died and you say oh sorry?"

"Uh, very sorry?" Dean offered. John smiled back at him and laughed loudly.

Dean found himself staring at the man and smiling. It was evident from John's excitement that this topic was a favor one for him. He spoke with such energy and animation Dean found himself staring back, transfixed, like a child hearing a… well, a ghost story.

"That first game was in Boston was a blow out," John said dramatically. "Your bullpen fell apart and their bats were on fire. They spanked you 9-2. Next game was closer and even more demoralizing for that reason. You guys almost pulled it out, but you were hitless in the second game and then, Nomar…"

"Garciaparra," Dean nodded, recalling the Boston player from box scores and news stories of his own past.

"Yeah, he drilled what ended up being the game-winning RBI past you in the fifth," John sighed and closed his eyes then shook his head as if experiencing the pain and disappointment all over again. "I could have strangled the commentators. Fucking McCarver. Son of a bitch never liked you. Smug bastard sitting there in front of the camera claiming you were choking under all the pressure. You, the clutch player that whole season? Bastard. You were sick—had a damn killer cold/flu thing—and he knew it. You were playing with a fever of 102. After that game, once you were getting on the plane to fly back to Chicago, you called in a specialist."

Dean looked at him mystified. Had he used hoodoo? Santoria? Some deep backwoods mojo? Maybe the voodoo nickname was kind of accurate.

"Bet you didn't know this: I was with her when she got your call," John chuckled. "God, you sounded like a pathetic, whinny, little kid calling your mommy." He lowered his voice to a raspy whisper and spoke as though he had a cold. "_Mom, I'm sick_…"

John laughed loudly and wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. Dean scowled and clenched his jaw. Commands and orders, those he was used to, but making fun of him was not something the John Winchester he knew did.

"Oh, stop that, I'm just picking," John smiled easily and squeezed Dean's shoulder. "Besides, it was a genius move on your part because it worked, kido. Two days and a few bowls of tomato-rice soup later, you were back on your A-game. The news guys were suddenly falling all over themselves with this nice little apple pie story: Dean Winchester's Mommy to the Rescue. Thank Jimmy for that one, huh?"

Dean looked at him blankly. His father's face faltered for a moment. John cleared his throat and cut his eyes away briefly before charging forward with his story.

"You know, your mother still gets offers for to sell that recipe," he said quickly. "Hey, you can't argue with results, right? It put you back in the game, and you helped Chicago won Games 3 and 4 to tie the Series. Dean, you were on fire; seven RBI's, six stolen bases, a two-shot game-tying homerun in Game 3 to send the game into extra innings where your bunt advanced the runner and started the rally to put the Cubs ahead. Of course, you guys lost Game 5—that was Dusty's fault."

Dusty, Dean wondered until the name Dusty Baker rose from the depths of his mind. Dusty Baker, general manager of the Cubs. Dean nodded greedily taking in the details while trying to look casual.

"He should have brought in a relief pitcher sooner," John said. "So there was no room for error those last two games. Do or die time and boy, in Games 6 and 7, you were flawless. The team came back and won Game 6 in Boston—on your grand slam no less."

Dean blinked in surprise and shock as he heard his father's voice crack at the end. The man looked at him with a pride-filled misty gaze. His jaw trembled with raw emotion as he took a shaky breath and continued.

"You brought the Series back to Chicago and won it all in Game 7," he said shakily. "They said it could never be done—the Cubs winning again—but you, Slugger, you did it."

"Me?" he repeated and shook his head doubtfully. He felt guilty accepting praise for something he certainly hadn't done. "There's a whole team, Dad."

"Okay, okay, Mr. Humble, your team, but there's a reason you were the Series MVP, Dean," John beamed. "Dead sick at the start of the Series—nearly too tired to stay awake in the dugout when you weren't playing—but you were a trooper and just amazing the whole way through, son. I mean, legendary. You know, I think every kid in Chicago and Kansas was Dean Winchester for Halloween that year."

"Okay, that's just… creepy," Dean shuddered but couldn't help but smile for a moment.

"After what you did?" John shook his head. "Hell, I wanted to be you. I mean, you'd think an 8th inning grand slam to win Game 6 was enough for one guy to be the hero, but not you. No, you weren't done yet."

Dean looked back at him expectantly. As entertaining stories went, it was spectacular. Dean loved baseball. Always had. He just never got a chance to actually play. Sure, Bobby was kind and would throw a ball with him when there was time, but Dean never actually got the chance to play on a team. He always wanted to and loved watching games whenever the opportunity presented itself, but those were rare moments. To hear his father talk with him about baseball—amazingly games he allegedly played in himself—was gift in itself.

"Oh, you gave it everything you had in Game 7," John recalled. "You knew you had the whole city counting on you and the whole country watching. Talk about the weight of the world."

Dean shrugged and caught himself on the verge of saying: You get used to it. Luckily, he stopped himself in time and chewed his lip instead.

"I still get heart palpitations just thinking of that last game," John nodded and sighed wistfully. "I yelled myself hoarse when you hit that homerun in the 3rd to put the Cubs on the board. I think I herniated one of my vocal cords when you nailed that RBI in the bottom of the 7th to tie the score. Then, when you stole home to put the Cubs ahead in the 8th, I nearly crushed your mother with a bear hug. Hell, you know how reserved she is at games, but even she was jumping out of her seat like it was on fire. I love that picture they shot of her wearing a rally cap. I had it up in here until she saw it and took it down."

"She didn't like it?" Dean wondered.

"Said it wasn't appropriate to have the picture of my ex-wife sitting on my desk," John rolled his eyes. "Mostly she doesn't like the look on her face. Thinks she's making a duck face in it."

He laughed and grinned at the same time, making Dean wonder if the man kept a copy of it in the office all the same. Dean shook his head, still confused by his parents' relationship. There was an underlying current of aggravation but also an undeniable thread of affection. Again, he shook his head and tried to blot out ally semblance of thought relating to Mom and Dad sex.

"When you snagged Renteria's line drive in the ninth and turned it into a double play to end their rally…," John continued with a dream expression as if he was watching it happen all over again. Tears welled up in his eyes and the glistened with elation and pride. "The city exploded, and I nearly lost my mind. I know I lost my voice screaming in the stands. I see the video clip from the camera they had pointed at your mom and I, and I look like a friggin' mime."

"What?" Dean asked watching his father reenact the moment for a second. "Why?"

"Hey, I was a little excited, champ," John confessed then nodded confidently. "When I still had a voice, I'm pretty sure they heard me all the way back in Boston."

Dean looked again at the newspaper clipping of himself, apparently making the play his father so fondly remembered. He reread the headline pun about winning and his last name and looked at the opening sentence which decried that it took someone with the name _Win_chester to end the Cubs curse.

"What were you yelling?" Dean wondered.

"What was I yelling?" John laughed and thumped Dean's back as he jostled him fondly. "What I always do: That's my son! That's my boy!"

His smile was so bright it made Dean's eyes hurt. He quickly blinked and turned his head away.

"Dean, what's wrong?" John asked with concern.

"Nothing," he shook his head. "You just sound… proud."

The last time the guy spoke to him in that tone, he told Dean he might have to kill his brother then wandered off and died a few minutes later. The knot in Dean's chest was tight with that memory. It made his head throb and made him dizzy.

"Of course, I'm proud of you," John said. He gripped Dean's elbow and ushered him into the chair behind the desk. "Hey, you sure you're okay? Come here. Sit down."

Dean nodded quickly, feeling a fluttering sensation in his chest but also a knot in his stomach. His father's tone was concerned by also gentle and that churned Dean's emotions even faster. He forced himself to take a steady breath.

"I'm good, really," Dean said, feeling the competing sensations of happiness and anger in his stomach. He was glad his father was proud and pissed that it was for something Dean didn't feel like he ever did. "It's just…I… I don't remember… any of this. I'm sorry."

"Hey, don't apologize," John shook his head and spoke in a soft, kindly voice. "It's alright."

"No, it's not," Dean said in a rush. "It's like you're talking about someone else not me. Dad, I just… I can't…"

He wasn't sure why this was stabbing at him and raising a lump in his throat while tears prickled at his eyes. He'd led a fake life for most of his life. Fake names, cover stories and lies were as natural to him as breathing, but the pains he was feeling and the agitation about this one were very real and worrisome.

"That's okay," John said cautiously but with a warm and encouraging tone. "Take it easy, Dean. I don't want you to worry about that. The doctors said you need to give it time. Things are just a little misfiled in your brain right now, okay? It's all still up there, Champ."

"Don't," Dean shook his head and shied away from him. "Don't call me that. Just… I have a name. Please."

"Okay," John replied carefully, his deep, gravelly voice resonating calm and concern at the same time. "I've called you that (and Slugger) since you started to play Little League. Maybe it is time to retire those."

"Sorry," Dean shook his head and felt like a pathetic child as he shook off the jitters in his bones. "I didn't mean to…"

"Dean, it's fine," his father shook his head. "You've been through a lot, and no one just bounces back like nothing happened so give yourself a break. This memory thing? Your head just needs a little rest, a little time to organize things again. It's not like you don't remember anything, right? Just some spots are… gray and hazy still."

_Yeah, misty kind of hazy from that evil friggin' fog in that rotten graveyard… What the hell did it do and how did it swing this? Why did it?_

"You know the big stuff, the important things," John continued to assure him. "I mean, you remember who you are, right?"

"Uh, yeah, mostly," Dean said hesitantly. "Dean Winchester, born January 24, 1979, Lawrence, Kansas to Mary and John Winchester. I recognize you and Mom, and I know who Sammy is."

John nodded but looked at him funny. Dean looked back with a question on his face.

"Just not use to hearing that name," John said. "Sammy. It's been a while, that's all."

"Do he and I…," Dean paused. "We don't get along?"

"Sure you do," John replied. "I mean, you're brothers. Sibling rivalry and all that. Is that what's bothering you? You've mentioned him, a couple times today."

"I'm just… curious," Dean said.

"Look, don't let this thing between Sam and your mom get to you, Dean," John replied. "You know how she gets about family and obligations. Don't hold anything against Sam. You know how he is."

"Overgrown book worm who's no good with women," Dean offered.

John started to shake his head but stopped as he chuckled then nodded.

"What I meant was that he can be moody and aloof sometimes," his father explained. "Then, all of a sudden, it's over and he's back to being his old self again. He's just going through one of those times. You know, school and studying—he gets really focused. He takes it and himself very seriously. He's never had your roll with it attitude."

"I never had his grades," Dean ventured.

"It was never a competition," John assured him. "Sam may be the valedictorian, but your grades were good enough for UCLA. Your full scholarship may have been for baseball, but your grades would have gotten you in as well. It took some pretty clever thinking to strike that deal with your mother."

Just the word 'deal' always made Dean's stomach flip. He looked shrewdly at his father. The man was good at reading nonverbal questions. His instincts for reading his son in this world were even sharper than the one Dean knew. John was usually very good in the field, sensing when his son needed his back up or what he might do next on a hunt, but he was never good at reading Dean's feelings. Or perhaps he had been but just didn't care enough to show or act like he did.

"Cubs drafted you your senior year of high school, but you promised your mother you'd get your degree if she wouldn't give you any grief for going into a farm league in the summers," John recalled. "Day after your college graduation, you took off to play for the Tennessee Smokies, the Cubs' Double A team. She couldn't complain—not that she didn't but at least she didn't do it to you. Thank you for that, by the way. Until then, I thought the war was over."

"The war?" Dean repeated then nodded. "Your marriage or divorce or whatever."

"Yeah, whatever covers it," John rolled his eyes but a half scowl, half smile played across his lips. "In the end, you made a believer out of her when you moved up and started the next season with their Triple A team in Iowa."

"I started with the Cubs…," Dean prompted.

"Just after your 23rd birthday, Chicago invited you to Spring Training," John supplied the answer. Dean nodded as if he knew this. "You made the team and… The rest is public record… Hell, it's going to be Hall of Fame record some day. The point she couldn't argue with you bringing in a paycheck like that. Now, I'm proud of both of my boys. Sam's going to be a great lawyer someday, but he could learn a little something from you about loosening up and enjoying life more."

Dean shrugged. Again, this Sam sounded a lot like his Sammy. That was encouraging.

"You take baseball seriously," John continued. "You give it everything you've got, but you still remember it's a game, and you play for the love of it not the pay check or the headlines or the fame. Yes, I agree, you could have tried a little harder and studied a little more in school, but you got your degree and that made your mother very happy. You have balance in your life, Dean. I wish your brother could do the same."

Dean's life in balance. Sam's life off-kilter? That didn't sound right to Dean. He was having a hard time excepting any reality where he was better off financially, mentally and emotionally than his brother. The only balance Dean felt he had in his life was Sam. That was what kept him sane (even if the overgrown pain in his ass was what usually pushed him to the brink of insanity).

"So that's why mom's mad at him?" Dean asked. "He's disappeared himself from the family, and he's hiding in law school? That all?"

"For your mother, that's enough," John nodded, but he cut his eyes away.

Dean read this quickly as a lie, or rather a half-truth. There was more to this story.

"Family comes first with her, always," John explained. "I'm not saying I disagree, but you and Sam are adults now and have your own lives. She needs to give you both some space. I still joke with her about thinking somewhere in her mind she's Michael Corleone: Never side against the family. I'm sure your bother has his reasons for being so… detached recently. I'd like to know those reasons myself, but I'm not going to assume anything until I speak with him."

"So call him and ask what they are," Dean said.

"He's busy with school and working," John shook his head. "He's.. You know how Sam gets. He needs his space. He's adjusting to school, and I don't want to push him."

"When's the last time you saw him?" Dean asked.

"The day before you…," John paused. "Your mother and I were in town, in Chicago, to see you play in the All-Star game. You were starting. We invited him to join us—we had the extra ticket you got for him, but he had to work."

"He skipped seeing his brother play in the All-Star Game?" Dean asked shocked for a moment then shrugged. The Sam he knew didn't like baseball. He tolerated sports generally, but he wasn't a fan. He'd played soccer as a kid, but that was the extent of his self-seeking sports interaction.

"You know he's not much of a sports fan," John said. Dean shrugged then nodded. "He did come to lunch with all of us. Then, the next night…"

"Wait," Dean interrupted. "That was in July; it's September. You haven't seen him since?"

"I'm respecting his request for personal space," John replied. "I get it. He needs to find his own way and make his own name for himself. Dean, he's lived in your shadow most of his life. Everything he did, you did first. Driver's license, high school graduation, college, all of it. Then your baseball career took off and he's had to live with everyone knowing him as Dean Winchester's brother. It didn't get any easier now that he's in Chicago going to school. Headlines remind him every day that…"

"He resents me," Dean nodded.

"No, he doesn't," John shook his head. "I think he's just trying to be Sam Winchester, not Dean Winchester's younger brother, that's all. Dean, you gotta realize that's not easy. You know that Sam's always followed you around and been proud to be your bother. Then the accident happened and it threw him for a loop, I think. You're his older brother who was tough as nails and suddenly you were hurt pretty badly. He probably won't admit it, but I think it scared him. I've gotten a few phone message from him returning my missed calls. He doesn't say much other than he's busy and he's fine. Mostly, he's avoiding your mother and her lecture of course, so when I finally do talk to him, I'm not pushing him."

Dean looked hard at his father, filtering the information he had just provided. Sam was in Chicago. The accident happened in Chicago. It occurred months ago. John and Mary had been close by while Dean recovered. John and Mary had not seen Sam since the night before the accident.

"You mean, he didn't come to the hospital at all?" Dean asked, feeling a pang of hurt. "Not even once?"

"Dean," John sighed.

"You're telling me that his only brother was nearly killed and languished in a coma for weeks, and Sam didn't even come by for a minute?" Dean asked.

"It was a mad house at the hospital at first—media and people from the team," John shook his head. "Security told us to ask anyone who didn't absolutely need to be there to stay away at first."

"But that's for casual friends and other people," Dean said hotly. "Not family."

"Son, don't do this," John pleaded. "First off, getting upset now isn't going to make you feel any better. Next, it isn't going to change the past. Okay? I called Sam right after your mother and I arrived at the hospital and were told what happened."

"And he said what?" Dean asked. "Send me a text if he dies, I'm going to the library to read something?"

"You're entitled to be mad at him, Dean, but nothing he can do now can fix last summer," John reminded him.

Dean chewed the inside of his cheek. It was stupid to feel angry. He actually hadn't been hurt. He didn't exactly know this Sam. No apparent harm was done, yet in the pit of his stomach it felt a lot like the night Sam ditched him to go to Stanford. The night he took off because he felt his life would be better as far from his family as possible. He didn't want to be with them. He wanted to disown them and rid himself of them—possibly Dean most of all—yet here, now when Dean apparently had a respectable life, his brother was doing it again. It made Dean seethe for a moment.

"I want to see him," Dean said.

"You will," John offered. "He'll be home for Thanksgiving. I hope."

"Thanksgiving?" Dean repeated and shook his head. "That's two months away. No. I want to go see him. Like now."

"No," John shook his head.

"No?" Dean repeated. "What am I? A child? I can go see Sam if I want to."

John shook his head again and explained to Dean why it was not advisable that he travel, why he needed to rest and take it easy and why his mother was simply not going to let him go to Chicago and why he, John, would back her up on this. He was glad and encouraged at how well Dean was doing, but he had just been released from the hospital and was still experiencing memory impairment, dizzy spells and some motor confusion. He wasn't well enough to be on his own, which was why he was at home with his mother. He was only released to their care because the doctors at the hospital, along with the Cubs owners, agreed to allow it with certain conditions. Having a responsible party watching over him was one of those conditions.

"Are you responsible, Dad?" Dean asked. He looked around the room, admiring the office. "Seems like you've got your act together here."

"Meaning what?" John asked narrowing his eyes shrewdly.

"Come with me," Dean said quickly. "You and me. Road trip."

"Road trip?" John repeated . "You want to drive to Chicago? You're not driving anywhere, Dean. You're not cleared to drive. Hell, just last week you got cleared to walk without someone spotting you."

"Seriously?" Dean gaped. He didn't want to know how screwed up he, or whoever was him, had been the previous week. "Fine. You drive. You hate my driving anyway, right?"

He guessed on that but his father's grimace told the story. Dean always found it odd that his father, who was known for an aggressive approach to everything (including interpretation of the rules of the road) was so critical of his own driving. He felt Dean drove to fast, was too distracted and screwed around too much behind the wheel. Dean didn't see the issue. He was literally raised in a car. The car was like an extension of him. Driving came as naturally to Dean as breathing.

"Come on, I'll take shotgun," Dean nodded. "Chicago's what? Eight hours from Lawrence? Pack a bag and we'll be there by dinner."

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A/N: More to come. Thanks again for the reviews. I was told how amazing and generous Supernatural fanfic readers are with their comments and you all do not disappoint. You are wonderful and I thank you. Your reviews and messages keep me eager and excited to write the next chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: The Price of Happiness (Chapter 3)

Notes: I love the speculation the reviewers are offering in their comments. Some are ideas I am still considering; others are ones that never occurred to me. I love the intricacies of a fanfic reader's mind! They will all help shape the story one way or another, so throw in your two cents if you think you've got an inkling where this might or should go. Thanks again for the reviews! I truly appreciate them. Special thanks to Psychee for handing me a great line that I gave to Missouri Mosley in this chapter (yes, Lawrence's leading psychic is back).

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Dean told himself he wasn't hiding when he remained in his room after returning with his father from the garage late that afternoon. He crossed the threshold, shouting a quick "I'm back" and took the stairs two at a time to get upstairs quickly. It wasn't that he feared seeing his mother precisely. It was that his father's warnings on how she would react to his decision to leave for Chicago that concerned him. Seeing any hurt or disappointment on her face that he caused was not something he relished. There was also the powerful and nearly burning gaze she seemed to possess when she was displeased that made him a bit uneasy. Mothers, he was learning, were a bit like some of the creatures he had hunted: clever, powerful and an wild force to be respected (and avoided if it looked like the claw and fangs were about to descend upon you).

Dean and John had spent the day in John's office, discussing the business and the cars on the lot. What Dean learned was unsurprising: The business did fairly well and John was considering retiring early to focus his time on watching his son play ball and enjoy his classic cars. In the middle of explaining his mundane and very pleasing life, John ordered lunch for them—something he agreed Mary would object to: bacon cheeseburgers. In those moments when he went down stairs to attend to some facet of the business or made some calls, Dean hijacked the man's computer and did some research. What he learned left his head sufficiently spinning so when John brought him home, he going directly to his room to lay down and think was a necessity.

His own thoughts also kept him away from the tense discussion happening in the kitchen, which was an unintended bonus. John was kind enough to lend Dean one of the office's laptops. Dean offered up an excuse about feeling cut off from the world less if he had it. John did not ask any questions. He simply handed it over and went back to his own work. Dean felt a little bad about lying to the man. He was kind and generous and… well, pretty much everything Dean might have wished for in a father if he'd had a normal life. He tried not to compare the man too much to the one who raised him. The circumstances were so different that it was simply unfair. It also made Dean clench his jaw angrily to the point he began grinding his teeth. John caught the action once and mistook it for a manifestation of pain. The worry on the man's face was all the incentive Dean needed to police his feelings more carefully. If there was one thing Dean Winchester was very good at, it was not showing how he was actually feeling.

So, with thoughts of all he learned on the computer filling his mind and snatches of the conversation occurring down stairs, he lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. He was able to hear his parents talking about his proposed trip to Chicago in controlled yet displeased tones. Dean felt a knot form in his chest as the hushed argument grew in intensity, making its way up the stairs with greater ease. Hearing them bicker made him feel like he was a helpless four-year-old again.

"John!" Mary seethed. "What were you thinking? I cannot believe you suggested that he…"

"He suggested it, Mary," John argued. "This is Dean's idea. The more I think about it, the more I think it's a good one."

"You think it's a good idea?" she scoffed. "He isn't well enough to go traipsing across the country. Can't you see that?"

"It's hardly traipsing," John countered. "He lives in Chicago."

"At the moment, he lives here," Mary said fiercely.

"And there it is," John proclaimed. "The real reason you are so against this. He's not staying here, Mary. This is temporary. It's a visit. He's going to get back to his life. He's not going to be here under you roof and eagle eyes for the rest of his life. You can't make him your baby again and try to protect him from every little thing on the planet."

"I can sure as hell try, and not everything is as little and insignificant as you think, John," she replied. "I'm his mother, and I know what's best for him."

"For him or for you?" John asked. "Christ, it's like he's in seventh grade again and you don't want him to go on the school trip where they were going to make rubbings of gravestones in an old cemetery. What could possibly have happened to him in a graveyard?"

Upstairs, Dean shuddered at that. It pulled his mind briefly from their fight and back to the last place he was that made sense to him: a cold, foggy bone yard in Vermont. He chuckled at the irony in that: The last sane thing he recalled before ending up here was digging up a 200 year old corpse. _My life is screwed up no matter where I end up_, he sighed.

"Thankfully, we never had to find out," she snapped. "As for now, he just got out of the hospital. He needs me. You saw how he was this morning. Did that seem just fine to you? Don't say it did because I saw the look on your face. You were nearly as scared as I was. You're just better at pretending everything's fine rather than face real problems. Enjoy your denial, John, if it helps you pretend that you're his best buddy. Me, I prefer to act like a parent!"

Upstairs, Dean winced as the shrill sound of her voice. He was glad she was yelling at John rather than him. He felt a little bad about that but realized he was smiling at the same time—mostly because he didn't have to face her. But he was also a little entertained. John Winchester, the one who raised Dean, was a domineering sonofabtich of the first order. He bullied and bulldozed his way through anything or anyone that got in his way. Hearing him get a dose of his own medicine was kind of a kick, but Dean scolded himself as he realized he must be grinning a little too much. These were his parents (sort of) and they had had a messy divorce. Perhaps pitting them against one another without a referee wasn't all that wise. Also, this man had never done a thing to him. In fact, all in all, Dean was very fond of the guy and felt badly for him.

"He doesn't remember the accident, John," she continued. "He needs to rest and to…"

"He wants to go," John said firmly. "He suggested it because he wants to see his brother."

"Well, Sam doesn't want to see him," Mary said angrily. "Hasn't Dean been through enough without having to face that?"

"He's not a baby," John growled. "I know in your eyes he will always be your little boy, but he's actually a 26-year-old man with a professional sports career and a very good grip on where his life is going. Yes, he was hurt. No, he's not back 100 percent yet, but he's also not going to break if you aren't right there to make his meals or wipe his goddamn nose!"

She loosed a string of unflattering words that made Dean whistle lowly upstairs in amazement that she even knew the terms. _Must have learned them from that bastard Samuel_, he thought. _Damn. I should probably find out if that jackass is still alive here._ _I'm going to need a scorecard to remember who's on first. _ He grinned at that thought. It was a wonderful pun on several levels currently.

Downstairs the fight continued, gaining momentum.

"The fact that he's up walking and talking after an accident that could have killed or crippled him is a good thing, Mary," John said. "Whatever bug is up Sam's ass at the moment isn't going to send Dean back to the hospital. He's stronger than you give him credit for being. Trust me, your little boy is actually a tough kid… No, man. He is an adult after all."

"His brother didn't come to the hospital once," Mary said. "He didn't call once. The only reason we know that Sam knows anything about Dean for certain is that you leave him messages every few weeks. He makes it a point to return your calls when he knows you can't answer and when he leaves you a message, he never even mentions Dean. I'm not sure getting an in-person dose of 'I don't care if you live or die' is good for Dean right now."

"You don't know how Sam feels and stop dumping your anger at him on Dean's plate," John snarled. "You do this all the time, Mary. You try to protect them from every little thing in the world; you see everything as threat. Frankly, I'm amazed they grew up able to look out for themselves at all with the fortress you built around them. Now, when there's nothing out there to harm him, you're imaging a new threat to Dean: Sam. And that's just crazy. Yeah, I'm not happy with Sam for stepping back and not checking in more, but Dean's progress was all over the news. He didn't need to check in with us hourly. ESPN was doing that for him."

Upstairs, Dean scoffed and chuckled at that. There was no way Sam was watching ESPN. The guy was more apt to watch the farm report for entertainment than check out a sports station purposefully. Mary, apparently, agreed.

"As if Sam was watching ESPN," she scoffed.

The eye roll she must have given was evident in her voice. Dean shrugged and understood his brother's reluctance to talk to her on some level; pissed off mom was kind of scary. It was sort of like facing Ellen Harvelle with her sawed off shotgun: being wary was wise; being absent was better. Dean smiled at the thought then heaved himself off his bed. His warrior persona nudged itself back to the surface and past his fatigue as he determined the old man had withstood the fury alone long enough.

"His only brother was in critical condition for weeks," Mary seethed. "Half the country sent flowers. ESPN and CNN took up residence outside the hospital to get updates on him, but somehow Sam couldn't bother to pick up the phone when I called him. No time zone differences. No crying poverty that he didn't have a TV and missed the reports. He was in the same damn city!"

"Dean wants to see him," John said throwing his hands in the air. "I get the feeling he's going to go whether I am there or not. It's better if I go with him, don't you agree?"

"No, I'll go," she said.

"He didn't invite you," John replied in a superior tone. "Mary, it's a road trip. A guy thing."

"A guy thing?" she repeated. "You're not pulling that crap with me. You thought everything they ever did, every screw up or stupid prank they pulled was just 'a guy thing.' Dean gets suspended from school for fighting: It's okay, Mary. It's a guy thing. Sam gets busted at a keg party the night before graduation, but that's okay too because it's a guy thing. Well, it's not okay. They need to be careful and…"

"Why?" John asked exasperatedly. "I've asked you this a million times. Why is it so different from them than it is for every other person their age? What would make you think life is so precarious for our two sons that they needed St. Mary their guardian angel flying around them constantly?"

She said nothing. She merely glared back at him with a pulsing anger evident on the puckered scowl engulfing her face.

"It's bad enough he's grown up thinking it's okay to play when he's sick or he's hurt," Mary continued rather than answer his questions. "For once, please stop expecting him to be alright just because you told him to tough it out. Remember that first night at the hospital? Remember what we saw? Our son nearly died. That is not me exaggerating; that's a fact. The doctors say Dean needs to be sensible and take care of himself right now—only I know he won't so that means it's my job for the moment."

"It's _our_ job to see that he keeps getting better," John said, his voice taking on a more conciliatory tone. "Look, I'm not letting him run back to the team to finish the rest of the season."

"He's not riding 600 miles with you in a car, spending 8 hours on the road, just because he says he's bored," Mary replied confidently. "I know you wouldn't do anything to purposefully hurt him, but you don't exactly have the best track record for watching over either of them when they need supervision."

"This is about fourth grade again," John gnashed his teeth. "He had a cold! He wanted to go to school. What kind of kid wants to go to school when he can stay home with a cold? He asked. I didn't see a reason to say no."

"He asked to go because he knew he couldn't go to baseball tryouts that night if he stayed home sick from school," she recalled. "We ended up in the ER that night because he had a fever of 104 and convulsions."

"It was a fluke cold and he made the team," John shrugged with a touch of swagger. "No harm, no foul."

She placed her hands firmly on her hips and leveled an icy stare at him.

"Even if I thought going back to Chicago was a good idea, why would you even think about driving?" she asked in an acidic tone. "The flight is only an hour long. So, maybe you see why I'm so skeptical about this allegedly innocent trip to Chicago. You've obviously got something else in mind, so, let me make this one thing very clear: Whatever grand plans you have to reassert yourself as the Alpha in Dean's life, think again."

Dean shook his head at her proclamation of one of them being his Alpha. Considering the ferocity of their argument, he could easily see either being dubbed with that title—just not for him (he also didn't want to be the one forced to choose because his answer would be neither). It was odd. It had never occurred to him that some part of his life may have been slightly easier only having a single, absentee parent. Shaking his head at that revelation, Dean padded quietly into the room unnoticed by his parents, who were squared off on opposite sides of the kitchen glaring at each other.

"This isn't about what I want or any grand plan to oust you from your throne, Your Highness," John said in a nasty and taunting tone, but paused as his voice took on a softer aspect. "It's about what Dean asked and for your information, I was going to book us plane tickets, but he wouldn't let me. He said he doesn't want to fly."

Mary scoffed at the pronouncement. Her eyes grew wider and her worry was palpable in the air as she glared back at her husband seeking more information.

"He doesn't want to fly," John explained with a shrug. "He looked… a little scared at the thought of getting on a plane, actually. Look, I know he's still working things out. He's a little lost right now. His memory is kind of Swiss cheese. He remembers his name. He remembers us and Sam. He just seemed… shocked that he plays shortstop for the Cubs."

"Did he think he was still in the minor leagues?" she wondered. "Or did he think he took that contract with Boston? How far back does this memory problem go?"

"Hard to say," John said. "See, he didn't say any of that, but from the look on his face I don't think he remembered that he played baseball professionally at all."

"Dean doesn't remember baseball?" Mary gasped as the color drained from her face. "Dean doesn't always remember family birthdays or his phone number or to pay his bills or the name of whatever gold digger or headline chaser he is dating, but playing ball is the first thing on his mind when he wakes up and the last thing he thinks about when he goes to sleep. He probably dreams about it, too. Now, you're telling me you think he's getting better, but somehow he can't remember baseball?"

"I remember it's a sport," Dean interjected as he leaned on the door casing and shrugged. "I know the rules, too."

Both his parents jumped at his voice and turned to face him. Their expressions were varying degrees of worry and concern. John was taking the information better than Mary. Of course, he had figured it out several hours earlier. His mother, however, looked like she was going to call an ambulance any moment to have Dean carted off to the hospital again.

"I just misplaced the fine details of my career, like winning the World Series and stuff like that, I guess," Dean shrugged. "It's all coming back… slowly. It's not a big deal. I mean, hey, it's not like it isn't all on the internet. I can just watch it all and fix that. A couple clicks and: instant memories."

Mary's posture did not relax but she turned her scowl for her ex-husband to a concerned and careworn frown for her son. She approached him and placed her hand lovingly along his cheek while shaking her head.

"Did you forget promising me this morning you wouldn't try to put on a brave face for me?" she asked. "That means no lying about how you're doing, Dean. First, you should never like to your mother—about anything. Ever. Next, you really shouldn't lie about something this big. It might be a symptom of something serious."

"More serious than the skull fracture you told me I got a few months ago?" Dean wondered.

"Tell me the truth," Mary said firmly. "Do you actually remember your career, or did you spent the day reading about yourself on the computer?"

He didn't much like the patronizing tone, or being busted so easily. It rankled him as much as the feeling he was being coddled or treated like a fragile invalid.

"I remember exactly what I do for a living," he said truthfully, if strategically. He was a hunter; this little episode was some side-effect from that, but she didn't need to hear that… just yet. "Research is important, and it doesn't matter how I know what I know… now. The fact is that I do know it." He shrugged then added as an aside without thinking: "And you might want to be careful about the 'no lying—ever' rule. We could make that go both ways."

She looked at him with narrowed and confused eyes. He pulled her hand away from his face and shook his head as he adopted a more sympathetic tone.

"Mom, I'm… nearly fine," he said. "I will lose my mind if I stay locked up here. I'm not a… stay in one place kind of guy. I need to keep moving or the walls start closing in on me. Besides, what the hell am I going to do here in Lawrence? Sit on the couch and watch the leaves fall of the tree. By the way, that tree out front is looking pretty sickly. You should have someone cut it down before it falls down."

"Dean," John sighed and shook his head.

"Right, stay on topic," he nodded in return and decided truth didn't really matter much right now. "I want go to Chicago to see… my life. That could help. I'm not saying I'm going to jump right back into things. I just want to not feel like a prisoner or a burden."

"Baby, you're not a burden," she insisted.

"Also not a baby," Dean added firmly. "Mom, I love you, and there really aren't words to describe how much it means to be to be here and have you taking care of me. It's… great, really. It is. I just… For my own peace of mind, I need to see Sam. I can't really explain why. I mean, I could, but it wouldn't make sense to you. Or, it would to you (eventually), but then there would be a lot more explaining to do and…"

"Dean?" she interjected.

"Sorry, it's… complicated," he offered. "The point is, you're mad at Sam. I'm not. He's avoiding you for certain. He may be avoiding me, but I like my chances better talking to him if I'm alone."

The hard, cold, disapproving glare in her eyes was powerful and made him lean back slightly. He was suddenly quite glad she'd never pointed that look at him when he was a child. He wasn't sure he'd have been able to withstand it. He was reminded of the first time I saw her, the time angel travel threw his ass back to the 1970s, and she nearly kicked his ass outside a diner. Once again, he felt a little sorry for any monster who had ever crossed her path in the past. Her pissed off game face was a little terrifying.

"I thought we dealt with your rebellious phase in high school?" she remarked as she folded her arms.

"Forgot that too, I guess," Dean chuckled thinly and offered her a pained grin.

He looked quickly to his father for support. John remained in place but nodded in his direction. It was more of a "you're on your own but I'll give you first aid if this goes badly" kind of look rather than a "you're on the right track and I've got your back" sort of expression.

"Seriously, no help, Dad?" Dean asked. "Come on. Nothing?"

The right side of John's mouth curled into a reluctantly grin as he hung his head and chuckled. His broad shoulders bounced as he tried to control the fit. Dean wasn't sure this was going to be helpful as his mother whirled to turn her cold look on John. Dean considered giving him a hand gesture to convey an apology, but apparently the old man wasn't in need of it.

"That's my boy," John remarked. "Sounds to me like he's bouncing back to his old self pretty quickly. That's it. Decision made. Mary, Dean and I are going."

"No," she shook her head.

"Yes," John insisted. "I will compromise on the day. We'll go next week."

"A week?" Dean gaped. "No. Tomorrow is…"

"Too soon," John said firmly. His adamant words cut across Dean and sounded a lot like the John Winchester he knew. "Your mother is right. You do need to rest. We just brought you home, and you woke up today not remembering that journey. You're going to take it easy for a few more days. Mary, when we go, I'll stay with him. We'll call and check in regularly—and we won't be gone that long, a few days tops. Now, his doctors are in Chicago so if he feels even a little off while we're there, it's actually the best place to be. Agreed?"

Mary hovered with the attention of a KH-10 satellite spying on the Middle East over the next few days. Dean did not leave the house, not even to step outside to grab the paper in the morning. His mother acted as if he was going to make a break for it and fly the nest if she took her eyes off him for even a moment. He could feel her eyes darting over her shoulder from her desk in the kitchen where she would work on her laptop. Following suit, Dean spent the days catching up primarily on himself.

He also formulated a plan that would let him get out and talk to an expert, because he knew it was past time to call in one. A quick check of the local yellow pages revealed she was living precise where she ought. He did not bother to call for an appointment; if she was the woman he thought she was, he wouldn't need to call ahead.

His plan called for an apparent full disclosure approach to his mother. He made sure he at his breakfast, they were cinnamon rolls this time, which was nearly perfect except she put raisons in them. He bitched about the wrinkled and desiccated fruit with her, parrying comments and having a light conversation before proposing to her that he was hoping she would trust him enough to let him go for a walk by himself.

He could see the desire to say no or to tag along with him, but in the end, she relented when he said he would forgo any running on her treadmill if she would just let him take an hour long walk by himself outside. He even promised to carry her cell phone with him (he was feeling a bit naked and vulnerable not having one of his own and hoped to remedy that soon). She agreed as he also promised to call her the very second he felt the least bit unwell. That he had also coincided this request with a little intel he developed after sneaking down the stairs the night before and getting into her email (how hard was it to guess a password of Dean79Sam83?). Her calendar called for some sort of teleconference with an individual named Penelope at Scholastic Excursions that morning. That's when Dean planned to be gone, hoping her prior appointment would buy him extra time and keep her from following him via GPS signal (assuming she had that technology—he couldn't remember what they did back in 2005).

She reluctantly let him leave after making him restate his promises several more times. He left, pausing as he approached the corner and turned to wave at her strategically, knowing she was watching. Once out of her sight, he went to the prearranged location and waited no more than 3 minutes for the taxi he had ordered using her home phone that morning. It took him several miles away to a large, rambling two-story turn of the century home. He entered without knocking as the sign on the door indicated and sat in the waiting area at the foot of the stairs.

Several minutes later, the beads serving as a curtain to the sitting room behind him pulled back and the plum and surprised woman with the amber skin and deep, dark eyes appeared.

"Oh good," Missouri Mosley said waving her hand in the air, "I'm not losing my mind."

"What makes you say that?" Dean wondered.

"I woke up this morning thinking Dean Winchester would be sitting in my parlor after breakfast," she said. "I was worried it meant I was starting to have those sex dreams again. Now that I see you're dressed, it was just a premonition."

Dean nearly tripped over his own feet as he stumbled slightly at her announcement. He froze in place and stared at her as she walked back into her sitting room.

"Well, come one, Mr. Baseball," she said. "I ain't got all day."

Dean shook his head, wondering if she said that to everyone and why anyone would come back if she did. Then he recalled, this was his second visit to see her and he'd been treated that way initially as well. Well, when they're good you put up with their crap, he shook his head.

"You ain't gotten any crap from me yet," she called over her shoulder. "Keep grumbling like that and you will."

"Yes, Ma'am," Dean shook his head and followed her.

The room was as he recalled: small with tightly packed older furniture. It smelled the same, oranges and wood polish. She settled herself into her chair as he took a seat on the couch, consciously not thinking of putting his foot on her coffee table as he scanned the room for the spoon she once threatened to hit him with.

"Alright, Mr. Dean Winchester," she said folding her hands in front of her. "What you want me to do for you?"

"I need you to tell me if something is… wrong," he replied.

"Wrong how?" Missouri asked, her eyebrows arching high onto her forehead.

"No half truths, no good news because that's what people want to hear," Dean said. "I want the truth, straight up, painful or otherwise. Is something… off about me?"

"Off?" she repeated.

"Look, I get it, you don't like me for some reason," he began. "I don't know why and right now, I don't care. I just want some answers."

"Not like you?" she laughed. "Whatchu talking about not like you? I won money on them games because of you, lots of it. Boy, you like my little luck charm."

"I am?" he blinked hard with a puzzled expression. "You're not going to be ornery with me?"

"No," she shook her head. "Why? That what you want?"

"No, I just thought you'd…. never mind," he shook his head. "Okay, let's talk shop. I know you're not all knowing, but you get your… vibes or whatever that tell you things. Can you tell if someone's made a deal?"

"A deal?" she repeated him again.

"Yes, a deal, as in a once in a lifetime, too good to be true run of good luck or dream come true sort of thing with a huge balloon payment at the end," Dean said warily. "Don't give me that crap for the tourists and locals who think this psychic thing is all a game. Okay? I know about what's in the dark. I know about the stuff most people think is fairytales and just urban legends. You read people, right? Well, read me, Missouri. Tell me I don't know what I'm talking about."

She reached forward and took his hand. She stared at him for a long and lingering moment. After a while, her curious expression melted into one of sadness and finally fear. She let go of his fingers and stepped away. Her hand was shaking as she pressed it to her lips.

"What are you?" she asked as she stumbled back and sat heavily on her chair.

"I'm human," he said. "I'm just… not supposed to be here and here is… not supposed to be like this."

"There was something… strong and… I don't know how to describe it," she said, panting as she tried to catch her breath. "I felt so much pain and then cold and falling. It was dark and then… nothing."

"Right," Dean nodded. "Good summation of how I got here, by the way. Now can we get back to right now? I don't know how this happened. I just… I've been thinking of possible solutions and the one that scares me the most is a deal, a crossroads deal."

"What's a rich white boy from the suburbs in Kansas know about a crossroads deal?" she asked.

"Probably not a lot," Dean nodded. "Now, a poor assed hunter who wanders the country's back roads ganking ghosts and monsters and tangling with black-eyed bitches knows a thing or two. Forget what you think you know about Dean Winchester, because I assure you, I'm not what you think."

Missouri looked at him skeptically, but there was determination in his tone that matched the desperation in his eyes. She sensed his confidence and another powerful emotion, one of fear braided with pain, the kind of pain you only get from stepping behind the veil. He looked and sounded for all the world like the sport celebrity, but Missouri felt it when she touched his hand. The soul he carried was tempered and scarred by fires that burned hotter than any found on the Earth, and it was older for it. There were many more miles and much more experience in it than were evident on the pretty boy's face. She tilted her head as she regarded him carefully then nodded.

"I've dealt with deals before," he swallowed hard. "I'm just wondering if it's possible I'm sort of the… I guess victim of one. Like I didn't make a deal but someone did on my behalf, or I somehow got caught in someone else's deal by accident. Is that possible? I mean, I know someone other than the person making the deal can benefit from one. I'm just wondering if that's what I'm caught in… again."

"Again?" she asked and wondered if that was the answer to her many churning questions about him. "You only get one shot at a crossroads deal, sugar. The payment plan is a bitch, and you don't get to default on it."

"Tell me about," Dean chuckled and shook the painful memory of being eaten by a hellhound out of his mind. "I'm asking, if someone else made a deal, is there any way I could have been pulled into it and still remembered how things were rather than how they are here and now?"

She looked lost. He chewed his lip for a moment, debating whether he could trust her, but in the end the answer was obvious. Missouri was the real deal. She was a bona fide psychic and knew more about the world hidden behind the curtain than anyone else in Lawrence (other than his mother who he couldn't talk to) about this possible mess. So, he launched into an abbreviated explanation about what should have happened in 1983, hitting the highlights (leaving out the apocalypse and his time in Hell) and finished with waking up in Lawrence eight years in the past.

"Boy, you stone cold crazy," Missouri shook her head.

"Maybe, but I'm not lying," Dean replied. "You felt it, when I first got here. You know I'm telling you the truth. Now, can you help me?"

"I don't know," she shook her head slowly. "I didn't think demons had the power to manipulate time."

"Okay, so maybe they didn't," Dean offered. "Any chance something else could do it? I know angels can do the time travel thing, but I'm doubting this is all thanks to the Halo Express because where I come from at the moment Heaven's got the organization of the Harlem Shake."

She looked back at him lost on the description. Dean merely shook his head and forged onward.

"Heaven's a mess so I don't think the angel's messing with me right now," he shrugged. "They've got a garrison here on Earth at this time, but their Captain is pretty much a tight ass still so he wouldn't let them screw around. So, I'm thinking the only clue I've got is that mist in the graveyard. You felt it, too, the cold and the dampness, right?"

Missouri nodded. She felt so many things when she touched him. It was like standing in front of a six foot speaker turned up to an ear splitting volume. The sound, the noise, and sheer quaking of the world she felt upon making contact with him, made her burn hot like she was on fire, feel dizzy alike her head was spun around and her bones ached with a cold, clamminess and slithered around her neck.

"I keep going back to that moment," Dean said. "That moment when Sam in the graveyard. It's when my life stopped being my life and became… well, this. And I get this… I don't know, cold pit in my stomach every time I think about it and then my head starts to hurt. I don't know what that means, but it seems important."

"You got your bell rung good a few months ago, that's what it means," she said then held up her hands to stop his disagreement. "I know, I know. It wasn't you. You're future boy. Well, there's plenty of powerful creatures that can manipulate a person's mind, but I don't think any of them can do it to the whole world. Why were you asking about a crossroads deal? What makes you think one of those might be in play?"

Dean explained his reason: His life. It was supposed to be crap. It was supposed to be harsh and heartbreaking. It was when he got dosed by the Jin. His fate was to have nearly everything he ever wanted taken from him so he could simply ache and feel sadness, hurt and regret. Here, everything was nearly too perfect. His parents were alive. They had a relationship of a sort, and while not completely amicable and loving, it certainly wasn't all about hate and scorn. The worst part of it appeared to be a divorce, but that was roughly the equivalent of stale cereal in the devastating life scale. So what? They fought. Hardly something to lose sleep over. He had a great career apparently. He was a friggin' sports hero and had vaulted into the stratosphere of superstar very early in that career and capped it with a World Series performance that was something out of a storybook.

"And you nearly getting turned into a bug on a windshield last summer fits into this majestic fairytale how?" Missouri asked. "Don't make sense that the deal came due. You still here… and looking no worse for the wear."

Dean shrugged. That one was stumping him as well.

"To me, that accident seems to me like a deal gone bad," Missouri said. "Demons can't back out on a deal without making it void."

"Could someone else have done that, made a deal to break a deal?" he asked.

"I think only a crossroads demon could answer that one," Missouri said.

_Fuck. If I have to summon Crowley in this world, I'm gonna find a way to gank him just for the sheer pleasure of it. _

"But I don't think it could be possible—even with the help of that nasty little English man you thinking of killing right now," she continued.

"He's a demon," Dean scoffed. "You'd want to kill him too, even if he wasn't one. Guy's a prick."

"Uh huh," she nodded. "My point is, deals don't work like that with a double-cross. If they did, demon's would be attacking one another all the time. There wouldn't be anyone left to offer the deals, would there? Besides, for you, I don't think that's what happened. I feel a lot of burden on your soul, a load of pain and anguish, but I don't feel a lien on it. It's yours and yours alone. No one but you has got rights to it."

Dean sighed some relief, but that only meant that he (or whoever was in this body prior to him appearing in this time line) hadn't made a deal. That didn't mean someone else hadn't brokered one. The leading candidate, of course, was his mother. Not that he thought she would, but if pressed, he truthfully couldn't say what she would or wouldn't do. He had made a deal of a sort once before, when Azazel killed her parents and John. Her recalled the adamancy in her voice as she argued with John about protecting Dean. He wasn't sure she would respect any hunter's boundaries to protect her family (after all, neither had John or Dean). She was also the only person close to him with the kind of knowledge needed to make a deal, as he knew. He didn't see his father hiding a secret life or agenda. John hadn't known his family's legacy with the Men of Letters when he died after a lifetime on the road as a hunter. There was no way he would know about it having spent his life in the suburbs.

"Do you think I'm stuck here?" Dean asked.

If he was purely honest with himself, part of him was hoping for an affirmative answer. If he knew for certain that Sam was okay, he could see no downside to staying. Okay, maybe he wouldn't be able to play pro ball. He doubted he would miraculously develop that skill before February's spring training schedule arrived. Still, he had his excuse: the accident. The whole degree thing for a new career field also was out. He just didn't know about engineering—again, the accident was a hell of a cover story. Still, he might have money saved somewhere. Maybe he could actually go to school (the idea was laughable, but if he had no other purpose or responsibilities… maybe….?) If he didn't opt for school, he perhaps could live on whatever he had saved while he figured out what to do. The thought of a life without hunting as a viable option was frightening, yet a bit tempting. This was a chance for a life with his family where they were safe, and the biggest problem facing them was an internal squabble between his brother and his mother because Sam didn't call home enough, basically. Oh, and there was the problem of the five-year timeline to get the woman a daughter-in-law and a grandchild. Still, as terrifying futures went, it wasn't so bad (as long as he kept his mind off all the people who would die because he and Sam weren't there to save them).

"I have no idea," Missouri. "Let me ask around."

"Ask around?" he wondered. "Ask who?"

"Whoever," Missouri shrugged vaguely. "The spirit world has a lot more knowledge than I do."

"Right," Dean nodded. "If he's dead, and I so hope he is, try to reach out to a mean bastard of a hunter named Samuel Campbell. I figure, if he is dead, he probably doesn't hate me yet in this timeline, so he might be able to help you. He knows a lot. I'll ask someone I know as well… sort of. Assuming he's alive. I'll check in with you in a few days."

Missouri nodded and showed him to the door. She paused on the threshold and offered him a warning.

"Whatever did this, it's powerful, Dean," she cautioned him. "Maybe it was just an accident, but I doubt it. These things, they have consequences, but usually all of them are intended. Things may seem perfect to you now, but if you are the hunter you say you are, then you know there's always a snake in Eden."

* * *

A/N: More to come.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: The Price of Happiness (Chapter 4)

Notes: Glad you are enjoying this little revisit to the Season 1 through line: the YED. This story is a journey for Dean and an opportunity for him to see if, maybe, he can finally get that life he and Sam deserved… And while Sam has not yet appeared in the story in his 2005 form, don't worry. That is coming very soon. Thanks for the reviews. Keep 'em coming. I do so enjoy reading your thoughts and predictions and suggestions for the story.

* * *

Dean returned to his mother's home, getting dropped off by the taxi two blocks from the house—in the opposite direction from where he had the earlier taxi pick him up. He was heeding his mother's warnings about being seen in public. He wasn't sure the driver recognized him. The man appeared to be having a fight over his cell phone with his girlfriend, in a language Dean did not recognize, during the ride. Her shrill voice carried over the phone and easily into the back seat. He felt sorry for the guy, but not sorry enough to tip him with the spare 20 in his wallet. After all, if he was about to ditch a well-paying pro career, he needed to save his pennies until he found out what his whole financial picture looked like.

As Dean wandered into the house, Missouri's words kept coming back to him: _There's always a snake in Eden_. She was probably right. No good deed in Dean's world ever went unpunished. Then again, no ill deed ever went by without notice or additional retrobution in the future. Hell, it seemed that no matter what he did (or didn't do) the Winchester's got screwed somehow. The bloodlines were allegedly Biblically ordained and stretched back to Cain and Able, making Dean wonder if they also had a stopover in Judas's family tree as well.

"That was a long walk," Mary observed meeting him in the hallway.

Dean pulled off his sunglasses, feeling his eyes adjust to the lower light inside the dwelling. The throbbing was returning to the spot just under the scar at his hairline. He was noticing that it never fully went away. It would subside to a dull ache for hours on end, but when it returned, it did so with a vengeance.

"Wasn't walking the whole time," Dean said, strategically holding up a paper cup for coffee. "And no, it's not precisely coffee. I even had the guy put milk in it. That kind of makes it health food, right?"

He had gone for the coffee on his way to Missouri's specifically for this purpose. He had checked the location of the coffee shop, some 10 blocks away, and determined the time it would take to get there on foot. He hated lying to his mother, but again, he knew this was necessary. He would tell her the truth if he had to, but if he could avoid that and let her continue to live with her secrets, he would.

"You're taking huge chances going out," she remarked, taking the half-empty cup from him.

"No one looked twice at me," he shrugged.

That wasn't true. The brunette who made his coffee looked at him for nearly two minutes straight and spilled the liquid on herself as she paid more attention to him than she did her beverage. He felt he covered pretty well when she leaned toward him and began to ask the question on her mind. Dean swiftly answered _'I'm not him, but I get asked that all the time'_ then walked away.

"I think you're just exaggerating people's interest in me," he continued, planning to head back to his room but noticing the laptop he left on his bed was now sitting on the coffee table. "What is that doing down here?"

Mary looked around the door from the kitchen and smiled.

"You're not going to hide in your room all day again," she shook her head.

Dean offered her a raised eyebrow question. He had spent a good deal of the previous day in his room—a lot of it actually sleeping, which would have worried him if he hadn't been so tired. The rest of it, he spent looking up details on himself. At first, he thought it kind of cool to see that he had his own Wiki-page and several fan sites. Then he started reading what was on them and felt like he needed a rape shower. The fans' obsession (he guessed the polite word they would use was devotion) read like full on stalker mode. There were pictures of him in so many locations, none of them appeared to be taken when he was looking at the camera or aware that he was being photographed. From the odd shapes of the pictures, it appeared that whoever was with him had been cropped out. Others had photo-shopped themselves into the shots (badly). Worst still were the images in which his face was superimposed on someone else's body. Those were usually naked shots and he didn't want to think about who was looking at them and what they might do with them. He shuddered at the thought of how many people had access to those—the whole world basically, including his mother. That thought had made the pain in his head spike and still gave him sick feelings in his stomach.

"Besides, I'm just being a good parent," Mary continued. "They say if your kids are going to spend all their time on the computer that it should be in a visible place in the house so that the parent can keep an eye on what they are doing."

"Yeah, when the kids are like 10," Dean scoffed. "You don't need to worry about me. I'm not getting lured into a skeevy chat room to be hit on by a cyber molester."

"You know I like to be careful," she said brightly. "Besides, if you're as well as you're telling me, there's no reason for you to be secluded in your room. You said we don't talk enough, so you can stay down here and keep me company."

"Don't you have a job?" Dean asked.

He was curious about that; she had what appeared to be a work-related phone call that morning which helped with his subterfuge. He noted that she had done some upgrades to the house; the furniture appeared on the new side and the car parked out front (he assumed it was hers) was only a year old. She did not appear to be in financial straits. He had wondered what she did to pay for the house and everything else if she had been able to spent the summer sitting by his bedside waiting for him to recover. He also realized he didn't know where his father lived; he hoped it wasn't a rundown hovel. Dean had wondered if Mary lived off alimony as her means of support. John appeared to do fairly well at the shop, but Dean wondered if she got a good cut of that and hated himself a little for thinking it. While in some ways, these two were not his parents exactly, he was still feeling a little awkward and bothered by their divorce. He didn't want to be forced to take sides and choose between them.

"I work from home since last June when they closed the Lawrence branch of our office in favor of the larger one in Kansas City," she reported.

From her lack of surprise at his question, he figured she wasn't too worried he didn't seem to know that. What she did specifically was a mystery, but Dean didn't figure it was all that necessary that he knew. Working from home could be anything from transcriptionist to internet porn. He seriously hoped it was the former and not anywhere in the realm of the latter.

"So are you still working today?" Dean asked and grinned at her. "'Cause if giving me grief is how you spend your coffee breaks, we need to find you a more interesting job."

She smiled and sighed as she shook her head at him. She then drifted back into the kitchen where a small desk was wedged into a corner. She busied herself on a laptop with whatever her job was, giving Dean time to do work of his own.

Research was never his preferred task, but he could do it. It was a bit more tedious with 2005 technology as his mother did not have wireless. Dean wasn't even sure when wireless became a staple any longer. He just knew he hated her dial up connection because of the delays, but the extra time did make the day fly. And, like with wireless, he realized he had things much easier in 2013 in the research realm. He knew he had gotten lazy over the last eight year of having Sam around. Prior to teaming up with his brother, Dean was the one who had to research for his father on hunts (at least while Sam wasn't around). His searches now began to confirm some of what Missouri prophesied.

There were plenty of snakes in this Eden. Those snakes, Dean was realizing, were a lot of dead bodies who didn't have a hunter named Winchester there to save them.

He had expected this, but seeing the truth with his own eyes was hard. The fact that neither John nor his sons became hunters in this world meant that a lot of people who they saved were no longer. After racking up more than 20 names, Dean opted for a different approach. He did something very odd for him: He focused on the positive side of things.

First off, Bobby Singer was alive. Not that this surprised Dean. Bobby had been alive and well during 2005 in his world. Still, he felt calmed knowing that, for certain, the crusty old bastard who ran Singer's Salvage in Sioux Falls, SD, was still alive and scowling in this reality. In fact, according to the online police report Dean found, Bobby had just been busted by a local Deputy Sheriff, Jodie Mills, for a disturbing the peace call after "discharging a firearm out of season" on his property a few nights earlier. It was always hunting season for Bobby; Dean could only imagine what the man was hunting, but he was certainly glad Bobby survived the altercation with nothing worse than a fine.

Also in the win column for Dean were the Harvelle's. The central Nebraska roadhouse still existed, according to Google Earth, and per the IRS, the husband and wife proprietors were still alive and turning a small profit. It was surprising to see William Harvelle was still alive. It raised an interesting question for Dean. How many people were still alive because the Winchesters hadn't gotten them killed? If what Jo thought was true, John Winchester apparently got her father killed on a hunt when she was a little girl. But not here. Not now. No John, no mess up. Bill Harvelle got to go home and hug his little girl. Jo, it seemed, was a sophomore in at a community college; apparently, Ellen won that battle this time around. Or maybe Jo simply wasn't as interested in hunting since her Dad was still there. Either way, Dean smiled. He'd like to see them both again, but could think of no reason to appear in their lives. Maybe that was the trick to this timeline: Avoid those you hurt in the past and the would side step the Winchester curse, too.

It was not possible to determine if their friends Caleb or Jefferson were alive; they lived off the radar for longer than Dean could determine. Pastor Jim Murphy was certainly alive. His parish in Blue Earth, Minnesota was still in existence, and he was still the only minister assigned to it. Another upside, Meg Masters was a college student in Boston still. By now, she should have been possessed, only she wasn't as far as Dean could see. She was registered for classes and was showing she accepted an on-campus as part of her work study agreement.

Dean looked up Lisa Braeden as well. He was pleased to note she had just opened her own yoga studio in Michigan. He was happy for her, but a slight bit saddened, to see that her son Ben was enrolled at the local elementary school. He was glad Ben was in school, but the fact that he existed just confirmed what Lisa had told him all along: He wasn't Dean's son. _It was probably lucky for the kid_, Dean sighed.

One kid who not so lucky regarding his relationship to Dean Winchester was Adam Milligan. A search of records for Windom, Minnesota revealed that Dean's half-brother was never born. That made sense as John Winchester never blew into that town. From the news articles, the corpse stealing that started in early 1990s didn't appear to stop for two years so either the ghoul moved along or another hunter stepped in and take care of him. Dean felt less sadness over Adam than he expected. It wasn't that he had anything against Adam. Sure, he had been jealous of the kid as soon as he met him; John let him have a normal life and even took him to baseball games on his birthdays. Dean had also felt some resentment that knowing about Adam meant that he'd have yet another little brother to watch out for, but those were just initial reactions. In truth, Dean would have liked to have actually known Adam. He still carried an arm-load of guilt for the horrible way the kid actually died (in the jaws of a hungry ghoul) and just as much at having his body snatched by a douche bag with wings because Dean refused to play Michael in the End of the World saga. Then, as if hijacking his kid brother's body wasn't enough, the boy got his ass thrown into the pit of damnation alongside Lucifer. All in all, not being born was a better fate for his half-brother.

Another mother and child who weren't so lucky were Andrea and Lucas Barr. According to the online report, they drown recently in Lake Manitoc, Wisconsin. Dean also wasn't surprised men were still dying on Centennial Highway in Jericho, California, or that a brother and his friends were listed as missing in after hiking to Blackwater Ridge in Lost Creek, Colorado. The kid's sister and other brother were now presumed missing too after setting out with a guide to look for the missing hikers. Wendigo had gotten them, Dean was certain as they were people he and Sam should have saved.

In this timeline, they were all dead. There were a lot more to come, he knew. He swallowed hard and felt a weariness seep into his bones. He found himself feeling fatigued during the days in a way that was unfamiliar to him. He suspect it had something to do with either what that evil mist did to bring him to this time and place or the new scars he sported (the one along his hairline and the other on his torso). He tipped his head to his chest and sighed.

This was the choice he faced, assuming he could find a way to go back: Was it better here or there? There were more people lost by he and his family not hunting. The flip side was, his family was alive. Yes, it was selfish, but if Dean had learned one thing in his time as a hunter, sacrificing himself never turned out well. There was always another monster, another freak, another catastrophe. It didn't seem to matter what he did; there was never a final victory and never would be. But here, in this place and time, his family and friends were free and they were safe. Dean was torn and sighed heavily.

"What's wrong, Dean?" Mary asked, entering the living room from the kitchen. She watched him, as always, with shrewd and attentive eyes. "Sweetheart, you look troubled."

"Nah, its nothing," he shook his head and closed down the laptop. "Just… messed up world, I guess."

"It's not so bad," she smiled. "I mean, no matter how bad it gets, there's always pie, right?"

Dean smirked. He recognized his own smile and snarkiness in her expression. He wondered if that made it genetic as he had not been around her enough as a child to have picked up those behaviors. It also raised the question again of what his father, his deceased father, saw in him when Dean behaved that way. Bobby once told him that Dean reminded John of Mary and that's why he kept him at an arm's length. Dean wasn't sure how he felt about that at the time. Now, facing her, he was more confused than ever. He felt great affection for this woman and yet felt so guilty because his own mother never got this many years so he could not be sure this is who she would have been. Did caring for this woman insult the memory of his departed mother?

"Pie?" he repeated. "Is that your answer for everything?" He paused as she offered him her snarky smile once again which he returned with ease. "'Cause it's a good answer. Very hard to argue with."

"Uh huh," Mary said, folding her arms and walking purposefully toward him. "Okay, out with it. You've had your eyes glued to that computer for the last few days. Any time I've asked you what's so fascinating, you've told me you were breaking into NORAD to start a war, hacking into Cadbury's databases to steal the Caramilk secret, playing some game I've never heard of called Angry Birds, and (my personal favorite) watching cartoon porn."

Dean's jaw dropped as he looked at her with a gaping expression.

"Okay, I made that last one up," she shrugged. "I don't remember what other story you gave me. I just know you weren't answering me. What's going on, Dean? We have rules in this house. When your mother asks you a question, you answer it fully and truthfully because it will be so much worse for you if you don't."

"I was reading box scores," he said.

It was partially true. He had looked at his stats for the previous seasons and even watched a few clips of games. He was creeped out by seeing the interview clips of himself. Looking at himself on camera was weird. He thought he looked too young to be out of college and wondered if he had ever actually been that young in his real life. Considering how quickly his childhood ended, he figured he hadn't.

"Memorizing your stats in case I quiz you?" she asked as she took a seat beside him.

"No," he shook his head. "You wouldn't know if I was lying or not. You don't care what my batting average is."

"So we're going to keep doing this?" she remarked with a smile but not one that was pleased. "Dean, sweetheart, I know when you're blowing smoke at me and pushing me away."

He started to protest but was stopped as she simply raised her hand and leveled a flat stare at him. He ceased talking instantly.

"You've been doing it since your Dad moved out when you were a child," Mary continued. "It's never a good sign. So, you going to tell me what's going on or do I need to start playing detective again? You might recall I am very good at getting to the bottom of things."

Dean chuckled dryly as he rubbed his neck, taking in her determined expression. Her eyes were challenging, and he was reminded yet again that she was a hunter.

"I recall that I'm too old for you to actually ground me," he replied, fighting to keep a smirk off his face.

"I get it," she said. "I'm a pain in your ass, like I always am. I'm always a nosy, overbearing, untrusting, suspicious worrywart. I'm not like this for my health or just to invade your life. I do it because I care, and I want to make sure you're okay. I have your best interests in mind, Dean. I always have. So, when I ask you a serious question, don't shovel some cute little reply to me."

"Sorry," he shrugged.

"Honey, are you mad at me?" Mary asked.

He wasn't. He just found that he didn't know how to talk to her. The urge to simply stare at her was strong, and he figured it would seem pervy so he stopped himself from doing it. He wanted to talk to her, to ask her a million questions about their lives, but he knew that would just make her worry. He considered telling her the truth, knowing now that she would possibly understand given her background, but he resisted. While his father didn't understand her nearly suffocating attempts to protect her children, Dean did. She broke away from hunting, but the fears it imbedded in her remained. The dark and toothy creatures that skulked and stalked the humans of the world were threats she knew and feared. Her children were walking meat-cicles to them. That fear came from a place of caring, but it apparently drove a wedge between Dean's parents.

"Do you think if you never had me or Sam that you and Dad would have been happier together?" Dean asked.

"What?" she gasped. "Dean, why would you ask that? I can't imagine my life without you and Sam."

"No," Dean shook his head cutting her off. "I'm not asking if you personally would be happier. I'm asking was it the whole different approach to parenting that split you guys up? Or was there something else going on?"

"Where is this coming from?" Mary asked. "Did your father say something to upset you?"

"Do I look upset?" Dean scoffed. "No, I'm just asking…"

"I know you took the divorce much harder than Sam did, but it was years ago," Mary continued.

"I'm not looking for you two to get back together," Dean said quickly. "I'm just wondering. I just… haven't been around both of you much… lately and now that I am, I was thinking. It just seems that you two seem to get along until the subject of me or Sam comes up and things start to go downhill... fast. I remember when Sam was still a baby, you two were fighting a lot. I remember that Dad moved out for a little while back then. I guess, being back here, is bringing back some of those memories."

Mary looked at him solemnly. Dean looked back and couldn't help but smile. She was beautiful, and he felt sorry for Sam, his Sam—the one he knew and hunted with—for not getting this opportunity. He wasn't sure what he would tell him when he got back… if he did. The possibility he might not go back was growing, and he knew that was due in part to his growing attachment to this world. Unlike the time he was dosed by the Jin, he wasn't getting any flashes of another reality. Nothing felt off here (other than being there). In fact, other than the fatigue and occasional pains he experienced (all which he could easily attribute to the apparent damage done to this body in a car accident), Dean felt great. He was starting to feel like this was certainly how his life could have been before demons intervened and angels did nothing to stop them. Not that he felt he deserved it; he did expect it all to come crashing down around him, but he felt like he had the inside edge. He knew what the future might hold and that gave him a shield against it. He could (possibly) protect his family… if they needed it. And what he knew so far was telling him they didn't.

"That was a long time ago," Mary said. "I think your father and I just weren't compatible forever. Look, I care about your father. He is always going to be a part of my life. We loved each other at the start, but we weren't prepared for all the stress and pressures of being married and having a family. We were young, probably too young, to jump into it. You father was just back from Vietnam. I was just leaving my parents' house. We figured we knew everything and could handle anything. And then there were bills and responsibilities. Then, as soon as we thought we had that under control, there was a baby in the house."

She smiled at him. Her expression said she was again seeing an infant in front of her rather than an adult son.

"What?" he scoffed. "Me, cause trouble? Never."

"You were always my angel—sometimes you were my hell's angel, but an angel nonetheless," she said. Dean cringed at that but said nothing.

"If you were struggling in the first place, why have kids at all or was it an accident?" Dean asked. The answer, he knew, certainly wasn't going to hurt his feelings.

"You weren't an accident," Mary assured him. "We wanted children; we said we wanted a house full of them. Your father and I were only children and didn't want to raise a child who never got the benefit of a sibling or two. Of course, no one ever tells you that kids are more work than you can imagine. Neither your father or I knew a thing about babies at the start. It wasn't like today where they have books and classes and a million places for advice and information."

No kidding, Dean thought. He had taken on the role of parent at age four. If she thought it was hard doing the job as a 24-year-old, she had no idea what it was like taking care of your baby brother before you were able to tie your shoes very well.

"You cried, sometimes for what seemed like no reason," she continued.

Dean nodded, he recalled Sam doing that as well; it bothered him and made him think either Sam didn't like him or he was sick and hurting for some reason. Dean wanted to cry himself so many times, but didn't think his father would like that so he swallowed his feelings, just like he did whenever those crushing feelings filled his chest when he started to miss his mother.

"No one was getting any sleep which didn't make anyone happy," Mary recalled. "Your father was working two jobs when you were born, to earn extra money so we could buy this house. That's when we started to grow apart, I think. He was very happy to be a father, confused but happy. I know he was busy working, but I didn't feel like he understood that had a fulltime job too, one that I was on call for around the clock: being your mother. John didn't understand that I couldn't do everything in the house and take care of you and him. He was… pigheaded, stubborn."

Dean rolled his eyes. The guy had no changed, at least the John Winchester that Dean knew best. The man was a Marine to the core. Domestic duties were not in his skill set. How she thought she could change that was beyond Dean. She sensed his disbelief and pleaded her case further.

"His job as my partner didn't end with paying the bills," she said. "He was never around; I was always on my own with you; or if he was around, he was tired from his work or couldn't understand why all the laundry wasn't done or dinner wasn't yet ready. I tried to explain that infants aren't like cars. You don't just turn the key off and they're done for the day. They need mostly maintenance. You feed them, you clean then and then you clean them again and then it's feeding time once more. That wasn't quite what he expected when he got the title of Daddy."

"Yeah, well, it's not like his father was around when he was a kid," Dean said in the man's defense.

As he spoke, he knew there was a lot less sourness in his voice than there would have been before he met Henry Winchester as few weeks ago. The urge to tell his father what he knew about the man was strong, but again, how could he do that without getting himself a trip back to the hospital for observation?

"I know you feel the need to defend him, but that's just an excuse, Dean," Mary said. "Your father wasn't an orphan. He had a stepfather who did support him and his mother. No, the problem was that your father needed to learn patience and domestic responsibilities. Plus, I think he was overwhelmed at the thought of being a father."

"Dad didn't want kids?" Dean asked. "You just said you both wanted a big family."

"We did say that," she nodded. "I think I was the one who meant it. He was like most men. Sure, have a child. Someone to carry on the family name, someone to go watch play a ballgame, someone to watch the Jayhawks with. He thought of it more like he would suddenly have a little shadow who listened to his every word and worshipped him. Of course, you did that when you were a little older, but babies have their own wants and needs and they don't really care what the parent wants. Babies also don't come with instruction manuals to tell you that, either. There's no baby boot camp to complete, and parenting is not as simple and easy as it appears on TV. He needed to do his share at the house and didn't understand why suddenly he was on his own. He had a young family, but he was sort of left out. You were my job. Your needs came first. So, we started to see the world differently. You were my world and he was… on his own."

"So you're saying I was a needy baby, huh?" he wondered.

"A normal baby," she replied, and stroked his hair once. "We were very fortunate. You were healthy and happy and very patient with us as we tried to figure you out. Trust me, if you had been a chore, you wouldn't have a brother."

Dean wondered about that, whenever he thought back to the contentiousness of his parents' marriage. If things were really so edgy and volatile, why did they have Sam? Was he an attempt to salvage the marriage? Was he a mistake? Or was Sam, like himself, truly just a chess move by the powers of the universe, edging them closer to the apocalypse. Oblivious to this thought pattern, Mary continued her explanation.

"Once you were a little older, mobile and better at communicating, your father found his niche with you and we got into a routine," she chuckled. "Oh, he used to give me heart failure the way he would play with you—tossing you in the air and flopping you around on the floor. He thought (just like now) that I was too gentle with you—that you'd become a mamma's boy. I was worried he would break you—accidentally, of course. It should not surprise you that I would cringe anytime you two would start rough housing—just like I did when you and Sam would. I was so glad neither of you wanted to learn karate or even play football in high school. It was hard enough watching you play it in the backyard with your friends. I'll give your father this much credit, if not for him, I probably would have bubble wrapped you and your brother once you started walking."

Dean nodded and knew in that instant that he could not tell her the truth about what he knew and what was going on with him. The fear in her eyes and the anxiety in her voice just talking about something as safe as football told him she would not be able to bear the thought of what her boys faced as hunters. The cuts and bruises and broken bones would pain her as much, and possibly more, than they hurt themselves. He understood her inclination to keep him a prisoner in the house currently. She had faced the possibility of losing him and had apparently sat by his bedside for weeks following the accident.

"I think Sam and I are tough enough to handle pretty much anything," he said. "I'm just not sure who we get that from more, you or Dad."

"He was the Marine," she replied.

"Yeah, but when the two of you start yelling, he's not the one that makes me want to duck and cover," Dean noted.

Mary laughed, taking the remark as a joke. He let the discussion begin to slip away. She needed to keep her secrets. Maybe doing so helped her forget who she was or deny what else was out there. Maybe hiding the truth brought her some peace, and Dean felt like she had earned that much. Plus, she had somehow managed to protect her family somehow. A survey of the house did not reveal any devil's traps or protection symbols hidden under the paint or under rugs. There were no protective or warding sigils carved into the boards of the home. He found no imbedded salt lines, no conveniently placed iron. How Yellow-Eyes never paid them a visit was a mystery to Dean. He was convinced, however, that this change in the timeline was what made the difference. Apparently, no demon entered the house on November 2, 1983, which meant Mary Winchester didn't interrupt him and didn't die for it; it also meant Sam wasn't poisoned with the demon blood, and he was released from his destiny. Or so Dean hoped. There was, of course, only one way to verify this and he needed to tread slowly as he validated his theory. If it panned out the way he hoped, his decision on whether to find a way back to 2013 was going to be an easy one.

"Hey, do you remember my fifth birthday?" he asked suddenly.

"Your fifth?" she repeated then blinked a few times. "I'm middle-aged, kido, not senile. Yes, I remember your fifth birthday. I remember all of your birthdays. I've spent every one of them with you, whether you liked it or not. Why are you curious about your fifth?"

"Just wondering what I got that year," he lied smoothly, not really caring about the answer, just glad to have this opening to discuss the past innocently. "I… uh… can't remember. Was it a bike or…?"

He remembered that birthday too well, actually. Christmas had been a nightmare. He was still reeling from the sudden loss of his mother and the abrupt change in his father. The holidays slid by in a cold, gray, tense and quiet blur. His father had dragged them out of Lawrence just before the holiday. Late one night during a screaming snow storm, while Dean lay in a lumpy motel bed clutching Sam, his father had awoken him with a rough shake of his shoulder. He was fighting back tears and his voice was thick and slurred as he apologized. He told Dean that day had been January 24th, his birthday, and that he was sorry he hadn't gotten Dean a gift or said anything sooner. Dean had simply nodded, hoping Sam stayed sleeping because he had been crying and drooling a lot with his new teeth growing in so fast. John had promised Dean that the next year would be different. He said they'd have a real home again and Dean could have a real birthday. Dean again had nodded and felt, for the first time since running out of their burning house, that things would be okay again someday. That was what stuck out most in his memory: that lie he told himself.

"Actually, yes, it was a bike, but you didn't get it on your birthday," she said. "That was the year your brother had ear infections because he was teething, and you were terribly sick with the flu. I put the both of you on the couch in the morning, and you both slept most of the day. We didn't even do your cake or presents for two more days—and by then, your father was sick so he didn't even join us at the table."

"So, no 5th birthday," Dean nodded. "Maybe it was fate."

"What was fate?" she asked.

"Nothing," he shook his head.

"As soon as everyone was well, you were begging your father to take you outside and teach you to ride your new bike," she recalled. "But there was too much snow and ice in the driveway and on sidewalk so you had to wait another month and a half. I think it was St. Patrick's Day when he was able to take you out for your first ride. Then, 10 minutes later, he was running in the house with you in need of band aids after you fell. I thought for certain you'd be in a cast again by dinner."

Dean grinned. Pastor Jim and Bobby had actually taught him how to ride a bike at the salvage yard. Bobby told him not to fall off because he'd need a Tetanus shot if he did; threat of a needle was enough to keep Dean balancing properly. Then, a few years later, Dean was the one teaching Sam. He didn't threaten him with a shot; he just kept running alongside him so that if he did fall he would catch him. They bumped each other and fell in a heap on the ground a few times, but Dean made sure he was the one on the bottom of the pile each time so that Sam was spared most of the scrapes.

"Any reason the date November 2, 1983 stands out in your mind?" Dean wondered. "For some reason that day seems… like it means something. Maybe it's just me being confused but…"

It was a shot in the dark, a pointless one he was certain, until he looked at his mother's face.

Mary looked back at him with a sad expression and nodded. He wondered fleetingly if perhaps the warnings he gave her on a previous journey to the past had taken, and she had done as he requested and remained in bed. That would, of course, mean Sam still got dosed with bitch blood. Which would also mean that he was just beginning to have his visions. Panic began boiling in Dean's chest.

"Yes," she answered solemnly.

"Why?" Dean asked quickly.

"That's the first night I nearly lost you," she said with a shudder. "Baby, that's the night you almost died in this house."

"It is?" Dean blinked.

Nothing happened to him directly that night. That was the night she was killed and Sam was poisoned. Dean was in Sam's room for a minute at bedtime to say goodnight to him as was their normal routine. After that, he was tucked in, read a story and drifted off to sleep until his mother's scream woke him. His father's shouting for her was what drove him out of bed and into the upstairs hallway. He could see, hear and feel every moment of that memory still as if it had just happened. He could smell and feel the sting of the smoke in his eyes, the wrestles and squirming weight of his baby brother in his arms as he hurried down the stairs—doing precisely what his mother always told him not to do when hold Sammy: run. For a moment, Dean felt his heart pound hard in his ears and against his ribs with the memory. Sitting there, in that very house again, suddenly made his skin crawl.

"Your damn daredevil antics could have gotten you killed," Mary said and took a shaky breath. "I swear you would never had done it if your father hadn't played so rough with you."

"What did I do… exactly?" Dean asked, tossing in the last word to try and cover his surprise at this information.

"You jumped and then fell down the stairs," she shook her head. "You hit your head and split it open and broke a few… Is that what's going on? I never thought about it before you asked just now. I should call Dr. Grayson."

She stood and moved toward the phone, but Dean grabbed onto her hand. He fixed he with a determined gaze and shook his head.

"Whoa," Dean said. "It was a long time ago. We don't need to go to the ER for it now. Finish telling me what happened."

She squeezed his hand in return then sat, reluctantly, beside him again. She pet his head gently and sighed as her eyes grew glassy with concern and worry.

"I was putting you to bed," Mary recalled. "We waited up for your father as long as we could, but it was getting late. We were going to say good night to your brother and then it was going to be your turn for lights out. You said goodnight to Sam and while I checked that everyone was set in his room, you went into the hallway. As near as I could figure afterward, you heard your father come home and you jumped in your attempt to fly down the stairs to see him."

"Flying?" Dean repeated. "Might be why I'm so anti-plane."

Mary shook her head and offered him a curled lip expression that said she thought he was joking inappropriately. Dean shrugged and gestured for her to continued.

"I think it had something to do with you having a Batman costume for Halloween just a few days earlier," she continued.

"No, I don't think so," he shook his head confidently. "See, Batman doesn't actually fly himself, not really. I guess he can like glide sometimes, but he has all his Bat…toys and they're what he…."

His voice trailed off as she offered him a flat and unamused looked. Dean grimaced then shrugged.

"You were in a superhero frame of mind still," she forged onward. "I'd scolded you twice earlier in the day for jumping off the couch, but you were… stubborn. I heard you yell for your father and then I heard you tumble just as your father screamed. I raced to the stairs to see you lying at the bottom… twisted… as your father knelt beside you."

She gulped and pressed a trembling hand to her lips. Dean's heart ached, and he instinctively reached out to comfort her. He felt responsible for her distress, which he knew was idiotic. He, or the him she knew, was the one who got hurt. He obviously survived it, but the pain and anguish on her face was still fresh. Alleviating her pain was his only concern.

"It's okay, Mom," he said quickly as he embraced her. "I'm okay."

"Oh, Dean," she sniffled and chuckled sadly as she hugged him back for a moment. She sat back and patted his face as she smiled. "You're the one who got hurt; you shouldn't be comforting me."

"What did I break again?" he asked.

"Your left collarbone, two ribs (one collapsed your lung), and you dislocated your left elbow," she recalled with a sickened expression. "You had a horrible concussion that knocked you unconscious and you needed12 stitches in the back of your head. I wanted to put you in the car and drive you to the hospital, but your father wouldn't let me move you. He was worried you'd broken your neck. It seemed like forever until the ambulance got here."

She shivered and shuddered at the memory. Her hands trembled as they latched not his forearm. Her face still looked pale with fright.

"We all spent the night at the hospital?" Dean asked.

That would explain things and offer his family a reprieve from their terrible fate. Dean's klutzy attempt to defy gravity landed the family far from the house on the fateful night. He had done it, albeit accidentally. He'd saved his family. A smooth, relieved grin spread across his face.

"You spent a week in the hospital," she recalled, still shaken by the memory. "I stayed in the room with you every night you were there. Your father was home with Sam those evenings. Those few days were the most scared I'd ever been until… July. Honey, I really should call Dr. Grayson. I don't remember if we told him you got hurt like that when you were little. It might be important and help explain why you're having such a hard time remembering…"

"It's okay," he assured her. "I'm okay, Mom. I'm fine. Really. Thanks, though, for, you know, staying there at the hospital with me."

"Where else would I be?" she asked, looking deeply into his eyes. "Your father had to go back and forth between home and Chicago, but there wasn't a force of nature that was going to get me to leave you there alone. You're my baby. Taking care of you is my job."

Dean said nothing. He hadn't been referring to the car accident. She had no idea what she avoided by her bedside vigil and Dean saw no reason to tell her. While the hunter in him had the deeply ingrained urge to figure out what sent him back to this place and time and set it right, but in his heart, the son and brother in him was sorely tempted to leave well enough alone. His family was here. They were fine. They were normal. They had squabbles and his parents weren't married, but they didn't hate each other. The Winchester's were slightly dysfunctional but they were whole, and Dean couldn't have been happier.

"You got plans tonight?" Dean asked.

"Do I have plans?" she asked. "Yeah, I'm making you dinner."

"That's sad, really," he nodded. "When I'm not here, what would you be doing? And don't say Dad because I'm still not ready to hear things like that."

Mary laughed and scolded him for the cheeky comment. She then shrugged while explaining she didn't normally have plans. Her life, now that her children were on their own, was fairly slow and uneventful. She was part of a book club, but she had fallen out of the reading circle over the summer. She didn't plan on rejoining it until after the holidays. She would normally go to her gym a few afternoons during the week and was part of the local historical society, but there was only a meeting once per month.

"So you're telling me that your life sort of sucks when it comes to having fun," Dean inferred and received a scolding slap on the arm but no other disagreement. "Let me take you out."

"Out?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'll buy you dinner on my shiny credit card, and we can hit a movie is there's anything worth seeing," he suggested. "It'll be fun, or at least not boring. I promise no strippers."

"Dean," she scolded again while fighting a smile. "You're not supposed to talk to your mother that way. I know you like to think you're a comedian, but we really need to work on appropriate conversation topics with you. You do not live in a locker room."

Dean smirked then held up his hands in surrender and apology. He felt like a weight had been lifted from his chest. It made him slightly woozy even, or maybe that was the mild throbbing in his temple again. Still, it didn't matter. Yellow eyes had never come calling to Lawrence, Kansas in 1983, or if he had, he hadn't found the Winchester's at home.

"Hey, that night I fell down the stairs," he wondered, "why wasn't Dad home that night?"

It might not matter at all, but Dean just wanted to be certain. He did not recall his father getting home late that night. Of course, his memory of that night did not become acute until he heard his mother's scream waking him from a deep sleep followed by his father yelling her name. He recalled, guiltily, thinking as he heard their voices that they were fighting again, which was why he stepped into the hallway. They usually stopped yelling at each other whenever Dean appeared in their sights.

"Well, he was home," Mary said, not understanding his question. "I rode to the hospital with you in the ambulance and he followed a little later once he got Louise Guenther to come over and watch Sam. Then both of us stayed at the hospital all night until you woke up."

Dean's blood suddenly ran cold.

"So Sam was here?" he asked almost mechanically.

"Of course," Mary nodded. "He wasn't hurt. We left him with Louise while we waited for news from the doctors on your condition. Why?"

Dean shook his head slowly as a sinking feeling filled his stomach. Sam, innocent and unprotected Sam, had been in his nursery all night. The only thing Dean knew for certain that was different this time was that Yellow Eyes, if he had arrived, wasn't interrupted. His heart froze has his mind raced with the dangerous possibilities.

* * *

**A/N:** _More to come…_


	5. Chapter 5

Title: The Price of Happiness (Chapter 5)

Notes: For those who have reviewed, I greatly appreciate it. It does keep me on task to put the next chapter together for you.

* * *

Dean spent the rest of the day in his room staring at the ceiling, trying to think of a way to get to Sam quickly or reach him. The phone, of course, would be the easiest method, except his younger brother surely knew their mother's number on the caller ID and was apparently not answering it whenever she called. Dean considered leaving him a message, hoping he would pick up, but again, all evidence said Sam was not interested in speaking with his brother either. This would need to be a face-to-face confrontation.

Except Dean was a prisoner.

All his life all he wanted was to be home again and to have his mother back. Now, both wishes were granted and it was killing him. He wanted to get away as quickly as possible, but there was no means. For a guy who escaped Hell, Heaven, Purgatory and more than a few gnarly moments on the wrong side of fangs, claws, black-eyed bitches and douche bags with wings, running away from home a quite house in a suburb in Kansas was proving nearly impossible.

_Do I need a friggin' tornado_ _to get out of here_, he wondered then scolded himself. Kansas/Wizard of Oz jokes equals bringing the wrath from on high, he reminded himself. Besides, he hated that movie. Witches and flying monkeys? Gave him the heebs when he was a kid.

No, weather was no more his answer than it was his problem. This escape was coming down to a matter of will, and he didn't have it. He couldn't muster enough to break his mother's heart and make her worry.

His concern for Sam was making him sick. He felt nauseous and dizzy and jumpy. He had noticed several times that his legs felt like they were going to fold on him. He was fortunate that he was able to hide those moments from his mother, but in the back of his mind, their power and increase frequency was starting to worry him—just not as much as his concern for his brother was.

Sam's visions started when he was 22—a few weeks before the anniversary of their mother's death, just before the death of his girlfriend, Jess. Only, he never told Dean precisely when the visions started. He only said the dreams of Jess dying started weeks before it actually happened. There were six weeks go to before that date. What if Sam wasn't with Jess? Would he still be having the dreams? Did they matter at all? Dean had a pile of questions and no answers in that moment. Time was not on the Winchester's side.

_Well, at least that's familiar_, Dean sighed as he paced his room, working his legs to get them moving again and keep the blood flowing so they wouldn't feel so dead when he walked down the stairs.

He tried convincing himself that maybe old Yellow Eyes didn't drop in that night while the rest of the family was seeing if the moron son would survive his first flying lesson. Maybe, just maybe, the ruckus in the house earlier in the evening was enough to make Azazale steer clear?

Only Dean didn't believe that. First, the SOB slaughtered a cloister of nuns in 1973 during mass. A little fuss over a klutzy toddler and a nice visit from the friendly ambulance was not going to scare him away. Next, the Winchester's never had that kind of luck. Ever. Dean shook his head and vicious scolded himself.

_No, instead, by being a idiot and pulling an R Kelly moment believing you could fly, you left Sammy totally unprotected. Neither Mom nor Dad was here. Sammy was left alone in his nursery with only a babysitter, probably asleep in the living room, to stand guard. _

The house didn't have a stitch of protection on it—something that at first surprised Dean but now was on the verge of enraging him. How had his mother been so careless? She apparently flipped out and turned on her bat like Mom-radar any time her children left the house, but when she knew the SOB was going to come calling, she didn't take a single precaution to ward her house against him? How could that happen? It was…

Dean stopped as the word _unforgiveable_ rose in his mind. Anger at his mother was taboo. It was hard enough to be mad at his father, and John Winchester earned plenty of his son's resentment over 22 years of absenteeism and lack of affection.

The more he stewed, the more Dean realized his only course of action was to get to Chicago, come Hell, high water or even winged monkeys on patrol for red shoes. Unfortunately, the only realistic way to get to Chicago was to go on his parents' timetable. That departure was still nearly a week away. One more week, seven more days of waiting and agony while Sam was in a city some 600 miles away with who knows what going on inside his head. It made Dean sick to think about it. At least when it happened originally in the world Dean knew, Sam had a background in the supernatural. Although he denied what was going on, he knew enough not to think he was losing his mind. What he might be thinking now and what it might make him do terrified Dean. Thoughts of the other psychic kids, the ones who flamed out not long after their powers were jump started, turned icy knots in his stomach and made his skin crawl.

His little brother was in trouble and needed Dean to watch his back.

Dean wasn't overly shocked to accept that it was starting to look like he needed to save his little brother all over again. While that was not a welcome thought, it was one that gave Dean a sense of calm. He was familiar with the job, and this time he knew how to do properly. He knew what would work and what would not. The danger wouldn't be a mystery to him. He could beat this thing this time, and he vowed that he would.

Until then he could see Sam, however, he was stuck in Lawrence. Getting to Chicago meant playing along like the nice, obedient patient. It meant following through on his offer to take his mother out and pretend that nothing was wrong.

Of course, even those plans had a hitch thrown into them.

As it turned out, the movie was not to be.

The only things playing were _The Exorcism of Emily Rose_, a taboo option Dean figured all things considered (and not a flick he enjoyed the first time anyway), and _Batman Begins_, which (considering his mother's revelation about his failed superhero attempt) seemed in bad taste. Dinner, however, was possible. Mary was still concerned about people bothering them if they went out, but Dean didn't share her worries. He had greater concerns on his mind and acting like he didn't was exhausting enough in itself. There was also the fact that he simply didn't think she was right to be concerned about attention at all.

He had been back in Lawrence for several days, had gone for coffee effectively incognito and been seen at the garage, but the feared newsies on the lawn had not appeared, which suited him just fine. He spent most of his life in the shadows or using fake IDs. In his experience, no one ever cared about who or where Dean Winchester was (unless, of course, it was law enforcement), and baseball fame or not, he'd just as soon as go back to that.

So, with the plans for entertainment dashed, that left just dinner with his mother. At least with a movie, he'd have two hours of time with her in which he didn't need to speak. Not speaking meant no chance he would slip up with an answer or a question. While he was residing with her in her home currently, their time together wasn't what one might term 'quality time.' She worked for a few hours during the day. From the casual eye surfing Dean conducted whenever he passed by her desk, it appeared she either wrote or edited reports. The subject of those reports was still elusive, but there were lots of dates in the reports leading him to believe it dealt with something historical. That, matched with her claim to be part of the local historical society, lent credibility to that theory. It also bored him so completely that he didn't want to ask her about it out of fear she would explain. The bizarre throbbing in his head each day was hard enough to cope with; asking him to sit through a dry lecture on the fascinating world of history text books or something equally as enthralling was asking too much of his stamina.

In general, holding his tongue around her was difficult. There were so many things he wanted to ask her about their lives growing up and about Sam currently, but knew he couldn't. There was no way to breach those subjects, not without worrying her. There was also the simmering sense of agitation he felt at her nanny-like behavior. Yes, he was unspeakably happy to spend time with her, but the constant fussing and checking was wearing thin. Dean had spent his lifetime taking care of others, his father and his brother. No one took care of him, but him (and he neglected that duty a whole lot himself).

So dinner was the plan. Nervously, Dean got ready to join her. While he was more comfortable in a roadside diner, he let his mother decide the location. She chose a restaurant she said was in an historic hotel on Massachusetts Street. Which meant that his T-shirt and jeans needed to be exchanged for pants and a recently ironed button down shirt. Although a tie was not required, Mary requested he wear one because, in her words, he 'was so handsome dressed up.' Dean hung his head in defeat while grumbling, unwilling to deny her wishes. He put the tie on under the condition that she agreed to let him pay for dinner. And, like with most deals (demonic or otherwise) he got screwed on the precise terms for the rest of the process. He figured that if he was paying that meant he was in-charge and therefore also driving . Mary shot that down quickly and palmed the keys to her car with a toothy smile that was not at all pleasant when he held out his hand to take them back. She was not to be moved on this point.

Doing the math, he had been away from the driver's seat of a car for nearly a week—an eternity. The last time he spent that much time away from driving he'd been in Purgatory (and before that Hell). The more he thought about it, no cars and no driving were a form of Purgatory and Hell in his mind. He set his sights on cajoling John into letting him take the wheel when they headed to Chicago. The old man seemed much more willing to give in to Dean's wants, which was just a whole level of craziness in itself because the John Winchester he knew best never gave a damn about or concerned himself with anything that Dean wanted.

Keeping thoughts of bargaining with John for driving rights in his mind, he resigned himself to being a passenger for the night. Thinking back, he only recalled being in the car once when his mother was behind the wheel. She took him to a grocery once not long before Sam was born. He recalled his parents fighting afterward, something about a parking job. Whether that meant she wasn't a good driver or just couldn't handle the Impala, he didn't know. He was, however, pleased she would not be piloting his baby… just in case.

Just before leaving, he watched her fill a plastic bag with pills he knew she would make him take with the meal and (by extension) limit him to water or something equally pedestrian as a beverage. Dean shook his head, grinding his teeth, and reminded himself that, despite his current ire, he was still very much enjoying the time he spent with her.

"You sure you don't want me to drive," he offered one last time as they left the house. "I'm supposed to be treating you. You're not supposed to be taking care of me tonight."

"You keep asking to drive and I'll decide we're staying home and ordering take out—the vegetarian kind," Mary said firmly. "So, if you want to go out to eat, I suggest you get in the passenger seat and fasten your seatbelt."

"I remember you being a lot nicer when I was a little kid," Dean observed as he scowled.

"Blame the attitude you copped with me when you were a teenager, Mister," Mary smiled challengingly. "Consider this a continuation of my tough love approach."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure I don't let anyone push me around like this normally," Dean grumbled.

"Probably not, but I'm certain that I'm smarter than the women you normally take out," his mother replied as she looped her arm through his and headed to her car. "This is what you can expect from a real woman who has a mind and who will speak it. Better take notes; this will be important and help you find the proper woman to be the mother of my grandchildren."

Dean dropped her arm from his as he wheeled around and looked at her.

"Uh, hold on—grand_children_?" Dean shook his head. "You never said there needed to be more than one."

"Next time, read the fine print," Mary said flatly. "Now, get in the car, Dean."

He knew he was supposed to cower under her glare, but that was simply not going to happen. He felt more comfortable in the joshing style conversations with her. He didn't know why. Yes, they were personal and invasive and about subjects that just didn't sit well with him, but he also had spent his life wanting to have any discussion at all with her. He ached and yearned for her to be there for him in the big and small moments, but now he was wasting the moments out of fear. When he thought about it, as they traversed the darkened streets of Lawrence, the problem occurred to him. It was a simple and longtime problem: What if he was himself, if he opened up to her, and it turned out that she didn't care for who he was? He had seen how Sam, her Sam just being himself, displeased her. Dean didn't know if he could handle that same level of disappointment being leveled on him.

The unseasonable heat of the day mingled with the evening's humidity, making steam seem to hang on the air and rise out of the storm water grates. Dean was again reminded of the thick and menacing mists from the Vermont cemetery. Despite the 80 degree temperatures outside, he shivered slightly but did his best to hide it from Mary for fear she would think he was running a fever.

They arrived just before 7 p.m. at The Eldridge Hotel and made their way toward The Jayhawker and Ten, the bar and restaurant housed within the historic building. Dean looked around at the posh hotel lobby as they passed through it. Out of habit he cased the room. His mother caught his scrutiny and offered him a questioning look.

"It's just funny or ironic," he smirked. "This is The Eldridge, you know, the haunted hotel of Lawrence. It just funny, you liking it here. I mean…"

He chewed his lip for a moment, inwardly scolding himself. The look on her face was not one of humor. She looked worried and narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. He shook his head as she scowled.

"Haunted?" she repeated as something sharp flared behind her eyes briefly. "Dean, you know I don't like talking about that kind of nonsense. There's no such thing as ghosts."

"Right," he nodded and kept as much of the smirk as possible off his face. "No such thing."

He just hoped the spirit alleged to dwell within the old building kept itself quiet this night. He'd never heard of it harming anyone—thus the reason the Winchesters had never paid their hometown a visit to toast it—but that didn't mean things could change. The last thing he needed was a ghostbusting incident to wreck his already tense dinner with his mother. Still, he wondered who would be quicker on the jump to go at the thing. He suspected he would, being in more recent practice, but he also suspected that her first and foremost concern would be getting him out of the building, which would make doing his job doubly difficult. Just to be prepared, though, he quickly eyed the salt shakers on the tables he passed. He nodded as he saw each appeared to be full. In a pinch, he had one of the tools of his trade close at hand. Another glance revealed what appeared to be several stick figure sculptures about a yard tall on the far side of the room. They appeared to be cast from iron. Those, too, could be helpful. The harder part of springing into action if necessary, he realized, would be explaining how he knew to go for the salt and iron and what do to with them to his mother. While Dean was certainly not a praying man normally, he offered up a quick one for a quiet night as they crossed the room.

They were led by the maître d' to a table in a far corner where the room was visible but they were not precisely. Dean suspect his mother had arranged this as the man smiled widely and spoke ultra quietly to them assuring her them that their waiter, Christine, would be by shortly and would be discrete. When Christine did arrive, Mary took over the order, changing Dean's request that the steak be rare to medium rare, making him order the green beans and not allowing him anything stronger than seltzer water with lemon.

"Just a small observation here," Dean noted. "I have a clue why you probably don't get a lot of second dates."

"Didn't you recently proclaimed to me that a revolving door policy for relationships was preferable?" she countered.

"Touche, but that's just for men," he nodded. "You don't, right? Have a lot of second dates? Or first ones?"

"Are you asking or is your father?" she wondered but did not wait for an answer. "No, I don't date anyone. I haven't found anyone worth dating, but if I had…"

"It would be none of my business," Dean surmised.

"No, it would be," she said. "Family matters. It's the only thing that does. If you or your brother had any serious objections to or didn't get along with a man in my life, that would matter to me."

"We had no serious objections to Dad," Dean chided with a smirk. "That didn't matter to you."

He meant it as a joke, but the look on her face was not amused. Dean simply shrugged then looked forlornly at the sad lemon floating in his glass. This was not setting up well for a nice, friendly dinner with his mother. Mary paused then continued on as if he had not spoken.

"I have a hard enough time getting you and Sam together for family gatherings," she said. "I would not bring someone into our family who makes that harder. Now, if your father has a problem with someone then…"

"Forget I said it," Dean replied. "This wasn't about Dad at all. I was just asking. You deserve to be happy, Mom. Don't worry about what Sam or I think about… anyone. I mean, what the hell do we know about what makes you happy? It's your life."

"Being your mother makes me happy," Mary assured him. "That's what I wanted most of all when your father and I got married: a family of my own. I wanted the whole white picket fence, Sunday dinners, school plays and ball games routine. There is nothing in the world that would make me give that up."

"Well, you had that," Dean noted and watched her eyes grow hard for a moment so he felt the need to explain himself further. "I mean, that was then. Sam and I grew up so you don't have little kids to look after anymore. This is your time to do what you want."

"Well, just because you boys aren't children any more doesn't change that for me," she agreed. "Besides, you and I now have an agreement. In five years, you'll be married and I'll have a grandchild so I don't see the need to find myself anyone else."

"Whoa, hey," he shook his head quickly, making it throb with the sudden movement. "Married was not part of the deal. You just said grandchild. Technically, Sam can do that for you… assuming he figures out how to…"

"Like strippers, that is not appropriate conversation for your mother," she reminded him but there was a grin in her eyes. "This should not come as a huge shock to you, Dean: I'm old-fashioned about family. Married comes before child. Just because your father and I weren't compatible doesn't mean you won't be with whoever you choose to marry."

Dean felt his appetite begin to wander away. Marriage and family were so far from his world. He thought once, long ago, that he could have a life and a family, that it was something he could handle and might be worthy of having. He knew now that wasn't possible. His time in Purgatory burned those thoughts out of him, but in a good way. Hunting was a calling and one that he was born to do. He was good at it. He sometimes got turned sideways and it did erode a lot of him, but the good that he did mattered. He wouldn't see old age, but that was fine too. As long as he got Sam through the trials and they closed the gates to Hell, nothing else mattered. Or, if he could save Sam in this world, maybe his brother would never have to face the trials at all and could have that normal life he wanted to badly without all the scars he would carry otherwise.

In the middle of his pondering, a tall man with a widow's peak approached the table. He was dressed in an expensive suit and an air about him that exuded power. He smiled at Mary and nodded briefly at Dean.

"Mary, good to see you—it's been such a long time," he said holding out his hand and clasping hers lightly. "Keeping a low profile, I see."

"We're trying," she replied then turned to her son. "Dean, you remember Mayor Gary Trenton."

"Sure, why not," Dean nodded and ended it in his head with _Douchebag_.

"I don't want to interrupt, but I saw you and just wanted to welcome you home, both of you, actually," Trenton said. "I understand you want your privacy, but I just wanted to say that the City of Lawrence is relieved you're on the mend, son."

Dean nodded again and suspected if the feared cameras appeared in the front yard tomorrow he'd know who sent them. Despite the things he read on the internet, Dean still wasn't sold on the claim he was a celebrity or beloved by the public. However, the man's oily nature and linger presence made Dean wonder if the mayor was there just to be seen talking to them. Dean was considering saying so when another man, slightly taller with broader shoulders and a thicker head of hair joined them. Dean saw him and smiled instantly.

John Winchester approached the table. His deep, resonating voice announced his presence to Mary and the mayor.

"I thought I saw you two," John said. "Out and about with the prettiest woman in Kansas. Guess you're all better, eh, Slugger?"

Dean smiled and stood to greet his father for the first time in several days, accepting a gruff hug from him and firm squeeze on his shoulder. Again, there was something settling about seeing him. Dean also got a jolt of pleasure watching Trenton seem to recede a bit in the man's presence.

"What are you doing here?" Dean asked.

"Mike and I had a meeting with some Chamber of Commerce guys over at the Jayhawker," he said. "Word in there was there was a big time celebrity in the place. Think they meant you or the mayor?"

"John," Mary sighed as she chewed her lip to fight a smirk. "Dean offered to take me out to dinner. Mayor Trenton just stopped over to say hello."

"Yeah, he was just leaving, but you can join us if you want," Dean said, essentially inviting the mayor to hit the bricks, as Dean gesturing to a chair for his father. "Mom, you don't mind, do you?"

She shook her head but a frozen look settled into her eyes. John paused to consider the offer as Trenton stood in silence unsure what to do but looking like he registered that he had been dismissed. John offered the man his steely gaze for a moment. Dean thought at first John was staking territory around Mary, letting the mayor know subtly that the ex-wife wasn't so ex after all and therefore not an option for him. As the mayor departed, politely offering his goodbyes, Dean saw a concerned look pass between his parents. Dean realized, with a touch of shock, that it wasn't Mary that John was prowling around.

"I thought we agreed he was going to lay low," John replied tersely to his ex-wife. "You spent the last week bitching to me that he's too frail to leave the house, but now, I see you're here tonight with the mayor."

"Dean wanted to take me out to eat, and I didn't invite Gary Trenton over," she snarled. "He wandered over on his own."

"Dad, just sit down," Dean encouraged, feeling a knot form in his stomach as he sensed a fight brewing between them. "Please."

Something in Dean's voice touched the man because he relaxed his posture. John sighed and rested his strong hand on Dean's shoulder as he looked down at his son with a more peaceful expression.

"No, I'm not going to interrupt your time with your mom, kid," he said warmly. "Enjoy your dinner—remember to eat your green beans or she won't let you have any dessert."

"I'll call you if we need anything," Mary said pointedly_._

"Take it easy, Champ," John said. "Have a good night. I'll call you in the morning to see how you're doing."

The rest o the dinner was quiet. They skipped on dessert. Dean could tell his mother was preoccupied with any eyes on the room or any cell phone calls being made. It dampened any hope he had for a fun evening or chance to repay her for all the worry and care she had lavished upon him for the last several days. He knew a simple (if expensive) dinner wouldn't make a dent in that debt, but it was something he could do. He also knew he was being greedy. He had been glad she didn't have other plans for the evening. He had no idea when this little dreamscape visit might end or turn sour so any time he could have with her he was stealing.

They returned home un-accosted and did not find a media van staked outside. Dean felt a little disappointed in an odd way. He was, of course, more disappointed in himself. He felt foolish for beginning to believe his parent's hype about him and his alleged fandom. He wanted to blame the medication Mary was force-feeding him for his susceptibility (he only took the pain meds when the headaches grew intense; the rest he simply palmed and threw out), but he knew a better part of it was simply his own unique form of arrogance. Dean certainly loathed himself often enough and held a dismal opinion of himself, yet at the same time he felt most of the people he met were no better than him (and more than a few were a whole lot worse).

His mother certainly sensed the change in his mood. They entered the house in silence. She thanked him for dinner and seemed to linger while looking at him with a sad and concerned expression. Rather than wither under it, he drifted up to his room and put on his pajamas, which remained a strange experience for him. When he was on the road with Sam, he normally slept in whatever he wore during the day or, at most, his boxers. It didn't feel right, sleeping in just his skivvies here. He never considered himself a prude (and his personal history sort of made making that claim pointless), but he felt awkward in this place still so PJ's were the order of the night every night. He wasn't even comfortable walking out of his room without a shirt even, but that was in part due to the ugly surgical scars on his chest. He found them disturbing. He didn't want to think what seeing them would make his mother feel.

Dean looked at the clock. It was barely 9 p.m., and he was considering going to bed. Something, he felt, was wrong with him. That strange chill he got from the moist air bit into more deeply and his head felt cloudy again, like he had breathed a toxic vapor. He was sluggish, in part due to the pills staving off the renewed throbbing in his temple. He opted to swallow a few of them. He also felt oddly anxious. His parents were on edge trying to protect him. He was on edge trying to make sense of who he was and why he was here while figuring out what to do about Sam. There were no available answers and he knew he was dragging his ass in finding them. That left one more option: Just leaving.

He knew he would need to break free of his mother's stifling watchfulness sooner rather than later. He needed to get out and go to Sam, but he would also need help if Sam's visions were starting. But where could he go for that? To the Roadhouse? To Bobby's? Maybe to find Caleb? Then again, maybe he was supposed to try and get back to his own place and time . Doing that seemed impossible, but maybe if he went back to that graveyard in Vermont… What if there was something with that grave? That ghost? The only way he would find any of those answers was to get out from under his mother's roof and constant hovering.

He sat wearily on the bed, dreading what he needed to do: Run away.

It was such a Sam move. Dean didn't run away. He stuck things out, for better or worse. Dean didn't leave his family. Here they were, most of them, just as he had dreamed and wanted for so long, and he was now plotting to leave them without a word, because if he gave them a heads up or a clue what he was planning, he knew they would stop him. Not that they would need to do much, he realized. John simply asking him to stay, offering him a supportive smile while telling him he would figure this out for him, would crumble Dean's considerable will. And Mary? Just the thought of her shedding a single tear over him reduced him to shards of broken glass inside.

So, he found himself again staring at his hands, and he began speaking to an angel who might not be able to hear him, or if he could, might not understand who he was or why he was praying to him.

"Cas?" Dean sighed. "Castiel, man, I can't figure this out. Granted, I'm not exactly looking hard for answers, but usually a problem this big sort of shows itself and what caused it pretty quick. So it's got me wondering, since that's not happening, is that the answer? Am I supposed to give this one a pass and just ride it out? This is… It seems better than Heaven. It's everything I never dared to hope, and it's scaring the crap out of me. I mean, what the hell have I ever done to get this second chance? It's a full friggin' do over. I've never gotten a second chance that wasn't royally screwed from the jump, but this… It feels real and safe, and I don't know what to do with that. I need your help."

He paused as he heard his voice crack on the final words. He waited for the rustle of invisible wings followed by the monotone greeting of "Hello, Dean." But they never arrived. Dean sat, his elbows on his knees, staring at the wall of his bedroom with no noise other than the sound of his own breathing.

"Dean?" Mary called up the stairs. "Did you fall asleep?'Cause if you did, I'm gonna have to eat this popcorn and watch my movie all by myself."

Dean looked toward the ceiling and snarled.

"Thanks for nothing," he said quietly.

Then, shaking his head, he left his bedroom and joined her downstairs in the living room. She sat on the couch with an over-flowing bowl of popcorn and a bag of black licorice. He grimaced at the second one.

"You and Sam," Dean shuddered looking at the vile black candy. "That has no place in your mouth."

"Good," Mary smiled popping a piece of the black candy in her mouth, "then I don't need to come up with a reason why I don't want to share it with you. Now, sit and watch this with me."

"I'm being honest with you here when I say: This better not be some home video you and Dad made," he shuddered.

"Very nearly," she replied and when Dean froze and stared back at her with a horrified look, she tugged on his arm for him to sit down. "Honey, it's just our family photos and home movies. The only nudity is from you and your brother when you were little and liked to run around half-naked."

"Kiddie porn?" he offered and received a scolding pinch on his arm.

"Sit and watch this with me," she ordered. "This is the grand premier. No one else has seen this yet."

"No one?" Dean asked as she hit play on the remote. "It's that bad?"

"No one has made the time yet," she explained in a forceful tone. "It was supposed to be done for last Christmas, but that never happened. It wasn't finished in February so we haven't all been together to watch it yet."

Dean shrugged and settled into the couch. The pictures started with his parents in their dating phase and then their small, civil wedding ceremony. Dean found it fascinating; he had never seen most of the pictures. He didn't know what his father had done with most of their possessions when they left Lawrence a few weeks after the fire. The boys toys and the family pictures didn't make it into the trunk of the Impala they day they left.

He turned his attention then to the lost memories, and the ones he never got the chance to have. There were pictures of his parents' first place, a camping trip somewhere, the two of them painting a room he did not recognize. Several photos later, Mary's silhouette began to change, and there was a different smile on John's face; his stance was closer and more protective of his wife. A very pregnant Mary and protective John were in a few more shots, mostly around Christmas signally the bump that was Dean would be appearing as an infant shortly.

The next photo was of Mary holding a small, wrapped bundle while resting in a hospital bed. Dean felt her shift on the couch beside him and reach her arm around his then grip it tightly.

"There's my baby," she said softly. "You actually smiled at me, the first time I saw you and looked at your face. You stopped crying for a second and you smiled."

Hearing the tenderness in her voice raised a lump in his throat and his vision grew blurry for a moment. He kept his eyes focused on the TV screen because he knew looking at her would make holding back the tears even harder.

"What did Sam do?" he asked curiously.

"Stuck his tongue out a bit and kind of sneezed," she remarked. The laugh in her eyes was slightly sad as she spoke, signaling that for all her ire at her youngest, the love had not diminished but the heartbreak was still fresh.

Dean looked away, feeling he was intruding too much on her private thoughts. He fixed his eyes on the TV again. In front of him, he saw a picture of John, so young and looking a little scared, holding the small bundle that was his first-born, while grinning proudly. The next pictures left Dean blushing. His mother was holding him, wet and naked, in the sink apparently bathing him.

"See, smiling again," Mary cooed and pinched his cheek.

"Maybe this started my fondness for being in hot tubs with blonds," he mused and receive a different pinch, the scolding kind, on his arm.

The photos continued to roll on showing John asleep on the couch with baby Dean flopped on his chest similarly unconscious; another was of John covered in globs of baby food beside Dean in his highchair wearing mashed carrots like camo face paint; then there was Mary holding her baby and smiling on a sunny afternoon as the child chewed his fingers. He could see it there, in this picture, very clearly: The resemblance between he and Mary. Their eyes, the shape and the lashes around them, were identical. His smile was hers, too. Dean shook his head at his dopey expression; the words of Missouri Mosley floated back to him: _You were one goofy looking kid_. Dean was ready to admit, she was right.

And his blond hair was just a shock to see, much like he knew seeing photos of the length it would be in later shots. He didn't recall when precisely his hair got darker, but he knew when it got cut: just after his mother died. His father apparently didn't like the mop on his oldest son's head and had it sheered down to a military style. Why he never insisted on that for Sam was a mystery.

The pictures and time paraded forward showing Dean growing up. Like many first-borns he figured, there were lots of photos of him and his first accomplishments. He went from sitting on his own, to crawling, to standing and (if the blurs in a few later photos could be accurately diagnosed) to running. There were holidays and regular days. There was a first birthday with a cake encrusted face and parents flanking him with frosting on their hands and (for Mary, in her hair, too). There was toddler Dean helping John wash the Impala—that brought a smile to Dean's face that Mary noticed and prompted her to chuckle then pet his cheek briefly. The pictures of toddler Dean at Christmas holding up gifts were typical, but one struck him as odd. The look on his face was perplexing.

"What is that about?" he asked.

"Oh, that one," Mary chuckled. "We had just given you one of your Christmas gifts—a T-shirt."

"Why do parents wrap clothes?" he wondered. "No little kid wants to unwrap clothes."

"Well, it wasn't just the T-shirt," she recalled. "It's what the shirt said and what we told you. You can't see it in this picture, but it said 'World's Best Big Brother.' We had just told you that you were going to have a brother or a sister in the spring. You, uh, didn't take it well."

"I didn't?" he wondered. Being Sam's big brother was such a part of who Dean was; the idea that he ever resisted it was foreign.

"Yes, we told you and then asked if you wanted a brother or a sister," Mary nodded.

"What did I say?" Dean asked, vaguely remembering the moment for himself.

"That you wanted Froot Loops and…

"And a tree house," Dean finished her sentence.

Mary nodded and chuckled as she patted his arm.

"We were, understandably, worried," she offered with a grin.

"Yeah, that your son was a friggin' moron," Dean chuckled. _Sorry, Sammy._ _Although, dude, considering how you can be sometimes, I guess I sort of got my wish on the Froot Loops part._

"You got over your… confusion," Mary said as the pictures rolled onward and Sam eventually appeared.

Dean thought he remembered going to the hospital with his father to see Sam for the first time. Mostly, he remembered being scared because his mother had gone to the hospital the night before. He worried the whole night that she was sick and that he might not see her again. When his father picked him up from Mike Guenther's home the following morning, Dean rushed into her room and saw her holding what looked like laundry.

The picture of Dean holding Sam, with his mother's help, made him smile. His life changed in that moment, he knew. Sure, his devotion to watching out for his little brother didn't exist then, but this was the moment, he knew, where it all started. This was where he met his best friend, the person he would without hesitation die for (and had). This moment was what gave his life meaning and was the reason he existed, because this was the moment he became a big brother.

There was again the typical (and for Dean unexpected) progression of years of holidays and birthdays after Sam's arrival. The two boys sprouted up and grew. There were the horribly stiff family photos, more un-posed impromptu moments and various school pictures. Those intrigued Dean. School was always an after-thought for him. Sam's needs took precedence over Dean's education. Here, however, there was a kindergarten graduation and a toothless first day of First Grade shot, complete with a Star Wars lunch box and adhesive name tag stuck to the front of his shirt. Sam got similar attention in the pictures. Both boys had pictures of what appeared to be them in Pop Warner football teams uniforms, T-ball and Little League uniforms as well. Dean was surprised to see himself about age 13 next to something that looked like rollercoaster/mousetrap structure with a ribbon proclaiming Second Place in the junior high science fair. Sam had what appeared to be a Spelling Bee trophy and pictures from a few school plays; his sports involvement seemed to stop around age 11; Dean's continued with baseball taking over for any other activity.

There were snippets of home movies as well. It was mostly birthdays and school plays (Sam) and sports (Dean). There a few minutes here and there of the boys horsing around together, some of Sam red-faced and angry at something Dean had said or done, the two of them chasing each other with a hose or wrestling in the surf on a beach that appeared to be near the ocean signaling they took family vacations. That thought was confirmed in a later picture of the two of them standing on either side of Mary on the rim of the Grand Canyon. As they got older, there were fewer family group shots. There were some of proms (Dean suspected he scored with his date—she had that willing look); Sam's looked like they probably read each other poetry afterward (but she too looked a little easy so maybe he had enjoyed himself a bit more than if he was in a study hall). There was news coverage from a Lawrence station highlighting the winners of the high school state baseball championship and a brief interview with their captain, Dean Winchester, followed by mention of him being a second round draft pick by the Chicago Cubs.

Dean's college graduation and some of his baseball highlights were there—some focused on him, but others showing his parents in the stands. Mary seemed to lean forward, clutching her hands and rocking in her seat nervously during the games. John was a more typical fan, loud and boisterous. At least they sat together and behaved like a couple, Dean thought. He did notice that Sam wasn't at any of the games, but he chalked that up to him being a school in California. The screen then went black, and Dean leaned his head back on the cushions then turned is head to face his mother who smiled at him expectantly.

"Well, it's a little slow moving and the plot is a bit weak, but it's not a bad looking cast," he smirked.

"I never intended to raise you to be an ass," she commented as she poked his arm. "I'm going to get Sam's graduation from Stanford tagged on the end of it then call it complete. The sequel will be for my daughters-in-law and grandchildren to be the stars."

Dean groaned at her third such reference in the last few days. He was not going to let the discussion stray into those waters. Instead, he remarked on one thing that struck him as odd in the later pictures and video clips.

"I was kind of surprised to see Dad in so much of it," Dean remarked. "I mean, with you and him being all War of the Roses there for a while."

"I know you blamed me for him moving out at first, but I never denied your father access to you boys," she said. "I just preferred if your time with him was supervised."

"Why?" Dean asked. "He wouldn't do anything to hurt us."

"No, but he indulged you out of his guilt," she replied. "Keeping an eye on things was just good parenting on my part. That's why I always invite him to Thanksgiving, Christmas and your birthdays. It kept you both from being pawns like some children of divorce are. There was also no playing one of us off the other or jockeying for the better gift or buying your affection. One Christmas, one birthday. Your father and I at least agreed on that much."

Dean nodded. All in all, it was a normal family. It was a typical history that so many people could have in common. There wasn't a ghost or a ghoul or a poltergeist anywhere to be seen. There were no demons, no curse, not monsters to tear them apart. This, Dean thought, was what heaven was supposed to be.

_So that's my answer,_ he thought looking at the ceiling. _I'm not going back and I'm not supposed to._

The next day dawned with moody skies and sudden wind gusts. Dean spent the morning in a lazy fashion lounging on the couch, watching weather reports for tornadoes and doing research on his computer—the weather reminded him to look for patterns that might show Yellow Eyes was touching down somewhere, but in the middle of all that he had fallen asleep.

The knock on the door woke Dean with a start. He jerked upright, sending the laptop tumbling to the floor from his knees. He dissected his location with frantic eyes at first before realizing he was in the living room, where he had deposited himself after getting dressed the next morning.

Still, the knocking continued.

"Fuck," he groaned shaking the cobwebs from his head as again the pounding on the door resumed. "Mom? Mom, you playing bodyguard still?"

He heard nothing. The house was silent. Shaking his head, he put the laptop back on the couch (hoping it was still working) and walked to the door. His heart was jumping in his chest, making him feel stupid. The last time Dean got startled by a bump in the dark, he'd been 10. Having it happen in the full light of day was unheard of.

Shaking the haze out of his head, Dean padded to the front door in bare feet. He was dressed only in jeans and a T-shirt and had not yet shaved. He wasn't even sure if he was going to that day. Cautiously, he peered out the side window and saw an unexpected visitor. He quickly pulled open the door and spied the wide, dark and harried eyes of Missouri Mosley.

"Good, you awake," she said and gestured for him to follow her. "I need you. Now."

"For what?" Dean asked skeptically.

"I got a five-alarm emergency in Eudora," she said agitatedly. "You the closest thing I got to 9-1-1, if you are who and what you say you are, Mr. Hunter. So, you ready?"

"Ready?" Dean repeated. "For what?"

He looked outside and scowled. Dark clouds grumbled in the sky. The air felt hot and thick. Dean may have spent his life on the road, crisscrossing the United States, but there was one thing the Kansas boy in him knew for certain: Those were ugly-ass storm clouds and this was tornado weather. He said as much to Missouri.

"There's a little girl in trouble," Missouri insisted. "She needs our help. You coming or you afraid the rain's gonna make you melt?"

"Anyone ever tell you it's bad luck to make Wizard of Oz jokes in Kansas?" he remarked leaning on the door. She stared back at him flatly. Dean winced under the blazing gaze. "What's going on?"

"I don't know for certain," Missouri said. "I know her aunt, and she called me just this hour. The little girl and her Momma ain't leaving their house in Eudora lately. It could be a poltergeist or something else. I just know this poor little girl seems to be its target. Now, you coming or what?"

Kid. Help. Hunting.

Dean gestured for Missouri to step inside. If he was going to go hunting, he needed… well, socks and shoes at least. Weapons would also be a nice thing, he realized. He rubbed his forehead and closed the door firmly against the heated, gusts of wind whipping around the yard. His head throbbed and his side ached again. Stepping out of the house to go investigate a possible poltergeist 20 minutes away in the small town of Eudora to the east of Lawrence was the last thing on his mind. Returning to his reclining position on the couch investigating the inside of his eyelids was much more appealing.

"Get dressed," she ordered. "There isn't time to make yourself pretty. I got what you'll need in the car."

"Why aren't you taking care of it?" Dean asked, fighting off a yawn as he walked to the kitchen and finding a note from his mother that she was running errands and would be back later.

"Do I look like a hunter?" she asked.

"You look a little pissed," he shrugged. "Seriously, you know what to do, don't you? I'm not supposed to be a hunter here."

"Ain't no '_supposed to be'_ in life, Dean," Missouri disagreed. "You being here is all the proof you should need of that. Now, you got knowledge and skills. You can help me save this girl. Or you think only you the one who deserves a second chance?"

* * *

**A/N:** More to come.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title**: The Price of Happiness (Chapter 6)

**Notes**: A sincere thanks for those of you kind enough to submit reviews. This chapter sort of… goes nowhere, but it was what my head was thinking about so that's what got written. There are big plot points coming shortly and a lot more action, but not just yet. Please bear with me through this one.

I also should let those of you know who didn't follow my Dark Angel stories, I have an editor who does the proofreading for my novels so I'm terribly lazy about doing it myself. Fanfiction is playtime for me and proofing stories would feel too much like work. Also, my editor, like my publicist, is not pleased I write fanfiction and is lobbying hard for me to stop and devote my time to my second novel. So we struck a deal: I do fanfiction to deal with stress and writer's block; he won't quit if I do not give the fanfiction more time than I give the new novel (ergo, I publish my raw, unrevised writing here). So, I beg you to forgive typos. I only get a few minutes a day to write these stories, and I'd rather offer you a full story with typos than nothing at all. Thanks for your patience and understanding. You readers really are the best. :)

* * *

Eudora was roughly half an hour from Lawrence, the way Missouri drove. Dean could have made the trek in 15 minutes, except she also wouldn't let him drive. Her reasons, had nothing to do with his health and everything to do with her lack of trust in him.

"I don't let nobody drive my car but me," she said.

Dean scoffed. It was a 2001 Chevy Malibu. He might steal it if he needed a quick getaway from a job, but he wasn't going to volunteer to pilot it. He missed driving, but not enough to throw a sleeper hold or Vulcan Death Grip on the rotund psychic.

Missouri whipped her hand to the side and slapped her fingers with the talon-like nails on his arm. He slapped his palm over the stinging spot and turned a shocked and accusing glare on her.

"That's for turning your nose up at my car and for using the word 'rotund,'" she scolded. "And if you even think of putting the Spock pinch on me, boy, I will show you what I learned from those Ty-Bo tapes I don't work out to, you hear me?"

"Yes, Ma'am," he scowled and edged away from her closer to the door.

The sky was growing more ominous. The A/C was cranked high in the car and could barely take down the oppressive force of the heat. Dean's temple throbbed and he swore he would never again mock anyone who claimed to get barometric headaches.

"Reach in the back," Missouri ordered. "In my bag, I got some notes."

Dean twisted and groaned from the ache it caused as he pulled a sheaf of handwritten pages from her bad. They contained a brief history of the family they were going to see and an outline on the history of the house.

He read it as they left the City of Lawrence's limits and headed east on a secondary road toward Eudora. Dean had been through the small town once in his memory. They tended to avoid Kansas on their hunts. It had always been that way, even when he was younger. As a child, he thought it was because the police might be looking for his father. From a young age, John had made Dean aware that the state officials would try to take he and Sam away from him if they knew how they lived. It was the explanation gave Dean for why they could never tell anyone their real names.

Later, when he got older, it seemed that cases did not crop up in his home state, which seemed odd considering all the crap going on there before they left in 1983. He and Sam currently, that is 2013 Sam and Dean, called Lebanon, Kansas home and it seemed right. Of course, that might have a lot to do with the place being the ultimate safe bunker filled with who knows how many toys and…

_The bat cave. Why didn't I think of it before?_

"What you thinking about caves for?" Missouri snapped. "Ain't no caves in that house or in Eudora."

"What?" Dean shook his head. "Look, stay the hell out of my head, okay? I get it. You're psychic, but you can turn it off. It's not a compulsion for you. Stay out or I'm getting out and leaving as soon as you slow down. Hell, I could jump out now without any trouble for as slow as you drive."

He grumbled the last line and ground his teeth together as he turned his attention yet again to Missouri's notes. He would reconsider his recent revelation about the Men of Letter's hideout once he was farther away from her and her persistent scowl.

"Sorry," she said after a moment. "I can, as you say, turn it off. I just don't know that I should. If what you told me is true—and I have no reason to think it isn't—knowing as much about you as I can may be the only way I can help you this time. I feel like I owe you that."

"What does that mean?" Dean asked. "And what did you mean back at my mom's house about second chances? I didn't do this to myself. Trust me, whenever I get a do over, it always turns into a screw over so I've learned to avoid them."

"Notes, reading, now," she said rather than answer.

Dean sighed and turned his attention yet again to the Chilton family and their home.

Althea Chilton was a widow, age 35, with a five year-old daughter. Her husband, James, had been a sergeant in the US Army. He killed in Iraq in 2002. His wife and their only child, Hailey, was a kindergartener in Eudora—or she had been until last week she stopped going to school. There was an incident in a classroom with a classmate. The aunt reported to Missouri that the child was being picked on by a classmate for the trinket she brought in for show and tell. Hailey did not take well to the picking and apparently swung a chair at the little boy, cutting his leg and landing her in the principal's office. She was sent home for the rest of that week, but did not return when the new week began.

They lived in a small ranch-style home built 20 years earlier. They were the third owners. No one died in the house. There were no violent crimes in the house. Nothing bad ever happened on the land on which the house was built.

"This is a whole lot of nothing," Dean remarked. "No incidents reported until the little girl hears noises starting a month ago. No history in the family of disturbances. The kid is too young to be causing poltergeist activity. You got any theories?"

"Not until I step in the house I won't," Missouri said. "Phoebe, the aunt, told me she saw plates flying off the table and chairs moving by themselves. All in the middle of the day. Lights flicker at night. Seems like poltergeist activity to me. I'm worried it's latched onto the little girl."

"She's five," Dean shook his head. "I know they like teens and tweens for their psychokinetic hormonal hell, but she's a kindergartener. That's pretty far from a teen. She hasn't even lost a baby tooth yet. Is she psychic?"

Missouri kept her eyes on the road and shook her head.

"I don't think so," she replied. "Phoebe didn't seem to think so either. Hailey's never shown any signs, but it's a possibility. With all of this starting so suddenly, we have to consider it."

Dean read further. The paternal grandparents were dead before the Chilton's married. They were buried in Michigan. The maternal grandmother was also dead, buried in Texas. The maternal grandfather walked out on his family in Eudora in the 1970s. The father certainly died violently, IED along the roadside ripped a hole in his Hum-Vee killing him and his passenger. But that was years ago and far away with no connection to the wife and child.

"Yeah, I got nothing," Dean shook his head. "You're sure grandpa isn't buried in a shallow grave in the basement?"

"Uh huh," Missouri replied. "No basement. No storm cellar either so we better be quick."

Dean looked again at the threatening sky. Dark clouds snarled on the horizon, clashing starkly with the vibrant blue overhead. Angry gusts buffeted the car occasionally as the gage in the dashboard registered 94 degrees. Dean's head throbbed just over his eye. He adjusted his dark sunglasses and tried to block out the pain.

They arrived at the house, a small ranch-style home set back from the road with evidence of new construction beginning on parcels to either side of it. The lawn was unkempt and wizen in the oppressive Indian Summer heat. Missouri hitched her legs out of the car and started quickly toward the dwelling as the front door creaked open with a groan.

"Althea," Missouri said breathlessly as she hiked up the steps, "this is Dean. He can help."

The woman, Althea, had a small frame and a dark, amber complexion. Her eyes were sunken as though she and sleep were adversaries. Her kinky hair was tied in a sloppy knot at the back of her head as she slouched in the doorway wearing paint-spattered cutoff gray sweatpants and a loose T-shirt. Her dark eyes fell on Dean then swiveled back to Missouri quickly.

"I know, I know," Missouri offered patting her on the arm. "He don't look like much, but he's useful. Only half as stupid as you might think."

Dean clenched his jaw but said nothing. Instead, he entered the dwelling to see what he imagined a tornado would do if it sprung up in the house. Pictures either hung crooked on the wall or were smashed on the floor. Pillows and cushions from the couch were strewn around the room. The coffee table was flipped on its side. Books and magazines were torn in half and their pages littered the floor.

Althea followed his careful and observant eyes then answered in a small, defeated voice.

"I don't bother to pick up anymore," she said. "It all just falls apart again. Seems to keep him calmer if I just leave it this way."

"Him?" Dean asked, surveying the damage then looking into the haunted eyes of the homeowner.

"James," she whispered in a choking sob. "My dead husband."

She then fell into a fit of tears. Missouri scalded him with a hot, accusing look as she wrapped her arms around Althea and soothed her with quiet shushing noises. Dean stepped away and began examining the rest of the house.

He felt naked as he did so. He was unarmed. His Colt 1911 and his salt gun were not his in this reality. He didn't have Ruby's magic Ginsu. He didn't even have an iron file or bit of silver on him. His stomach clenched as the vulnerable feelings overwhelmed him. He chided himself to stay calm; this was just a little home disturbance issue—something he'd dealt with fairly easily most of his life. Still, the lack of protection and weapons on his person made him think oddly of his time in Hell. There, he was at the mercy of the dark and vicious powers of Alastair and his blade. Dean felt his breath hitch in his chest with the memory. He shook his head hard and focused on the house instead.

It was a small structure. The living room led to a combination kitchen and dining room with a sliding glass door facing a small deck and backyard, complete with a pink and orange swing set. To his left, there was a narrow, dark hallway showing three doors, presumably bedrooms. All were closed. He looked again at the kitchen area. It was in the same disarray as the living room. Deep scars and gouges were carved into the cabinets where utensils apparently took flight from the fury and power of whatever as terrorizing this family. Dean did the normal checks for sulfur and ectoplasm and found none. He wished desperately for his EMF meter but was reminded again of how unprepared he was for this case.

"Missouri," he called, hoping his voice sounded steadier to her than it did to him. "I need your super powers in here."

"The whole house is the same," she said sidling into the room. "Here and the other room. There's anger here and confusion."

"Poltergeist?" he asked.

"I thought so at first," she shook her head. "Now, I'm not sure. No reason for one to be here."

"The daughter is five?" Dean asked, recalling the notes he read in the car. "A little young to manifest one if she's not… like you."

"I tried talking to her, but she won't see me," Missouri said.

"I'll try," Dean shrugged.

"You and a child," Missouri huffed. "No. You need to go to the hardware store and get some supplies then get back here. I have my kit in the car, but you gonna need more than I got."

"Any chance there's a shotgun in this house?" he asked.

He didn't have time to load salt rounds, but he would feel better knowing that a weapon was available if it was needed.

"No, and ain't gonna be one either," Missouri said. "This is their home. You can't be shooting it up and scaring them worse than they are."

"Well, that's generally why we have them leave while we work," Dean said exasperatedly.

The psychic regarded him with pitying eyes then her expression softened. She sighed and shook her head.

"Althea can leave, but her little girl…," she shook her head. "She just told me this mess was caused because she tried to take her little girl out of the house. It won't let the child leave."

"Where is she?" Dean demanded.

"Her room," Althea answered then stood in the hallway, looking desperately toward the door at the end. "Only she can open the door, but she doesn't like to come out here."

"Get her out here, now," Dean said.

It took nearly 15 minutes of Althea coaxing her daughter before the small girl with a crown of braids peaked out the door. A small, brief tremor, like a semi was passing on the street outside, rocked the house as the child stepped into the hallway. She held her mother's hand and kept her eyes on the floor. She stopped dead in her tracks, looking over her shoulder back toward her room, as they crossed the threshold into the living room.

"Hailey, this is Miss Mosley," Althea said. "She brought her friend. They need to talk to you."

The child looked at Missouri and shivered. She did not spare a glance at Dean. Instead, she looked over her shoulder again and trembled. Dean stepped forward, peering down the hall and felt his eyes go wide as he spied the shadow looming there.

It was roughly his height with broad shoulders, slightly wider than his own. Its posture, if a shadow could have such a thing, was menacing. It appeared to pulse, like it's chest was heaving, and preparing to lunge forward. Dean looked quickly at Missouri then tapped her arm and jerked is chin down the hall.

"What?" she asked, following his gaze and shrugging.

"You don't see that?" he asked in a worried voice.

"The door?" she wondered. "Did it move?"

"No, not the door, the…," he began then his eyes fell on Hailey.

She was looking squarely at him with tears brimming under her lids. The beseeching expression, one he recalled seeing on his own brother when Sam was young and worried their father had been gone too long, clenched Dean's heart and made his swallow dryly.

"I see him," she whispered, hooking her finger in her mouth. "Momma can't."

"Baby, there's nothing there," Althea said in a perturbed and dejected voice. "There's enough going wrong here without you making up imaginary friends."

"She's not making him up," Dean assured Althea as he crouched down and looked Hailey in the eye. "Are you afraid of him?"

Too afraid to speak, the little girl blinked hard. Her bottom lip quivered and her body trembled she was caught in the cold. She dropped her mother's hand and threw her arms around Dean's neck and choked out a whispered "yes" in his ear as she began sobbing.

Dean cast his eyes on Missouri. His expression was one of anger and dire seriousness.

"I need salt, road salt, and lots of it," Dean said. "Also, get every last thing you've got in your car that can be used for protection. Mrs. Chilton, Althea, grab everything in this house that would be impossible to replace, you got that? Impossible. Not too expensive, impossible. Get it out of the house, now."

"We can't leave," Althea said.

"No, Hailey can't," Dean said as the child gripped him tighter.

He looked down the hall and saw the shadow sink back into the wall. The house shuddered again and Dean felt his skin prickle like the air was electrified. The child clung to him tighter, her sobs wracking her small body as her hot, fat tears soaking into his shirt and dampened his skin. Water is a destructive force, able to weave its way into the tightest cracks and force what is buried there to the surface. The child's tears flowed directly into that spot deep within Dean, the one that he kept locked and hidden from the sunlight and all who knew him. It was there he kept the fears and anguish of a four-year-old boy awoken from his sleep by the blood-curdling scream of his mother dying. It was there he held the explosive rage in him for all things nasty and dark and evil. Sometimes, that place grew more unstable and the feelings would burst forth in an explosion of anger and flying fists and a deadly passion to make something else hurt as badly as he did. It was hard enough to keep that place locked up when a civilian was the prey of the nasty fuglies that walked the land; when they wrapped their vicious hands around a child, Dean knew there really as no way to contain what would seep out of him.

"Go," Dean said in a low, raspy and dark voice. The determination in his eyes made Missouri take a step back and nod understandingly. "Now."

How Missouri convinced Althea to leave Dean alone in the house with her daughter was a mystery to Dean. He did not care how they left, just that they did. He needed to speak to Hailey and he suspected she would be more open without her mother looking at her with fear and disbelief. It always amazed him that people could deny what was happening to them and their families despite what they could see in front of them. Althea knew there were a presence in her house. It was trashing the living room and kitchen. It was preventing her child from leaving the house, but she refused to believe Hailey could see an ominous shadow just because she could not see it herself. People's ignorance got them killed as often as their fear.

What Dean knew for certain was that Hailey was not imagining any of this. The shadow person was real. He had seen him. Why Missouri, who had freak psychic powers, could not was a mystery, but that was a question for another hour. Right now, Dean had scared child to question. He peeled the child from him and sat Indian style on the floor, coaxing her to do the same in front of him.

"So you're going to help me, okay?" Dean nodded. "I need you to answer my questions. I promise that I will believe you."

Hailey looked over her shoulder toward the hallway. She shook with fear.

"Listen, I'm not going to let him hurt you," Dean assured her. "I swear. I can help you, but you have to help me first."

"Can't," she shook her head.

"Sure you can," he said. "Look, when I was your age, something like this happened to me and my family. My Dad, he… he figured out how to fight, uh, bad guys like this, and he taught me and my brother. We saved a lot of people and now it's your turn."

"My Daddy died," Hailey said, swallowing hard, as tears dribbled down her cheeks again. She scooted on her butt closer to him, tucking herself under his arm so they could look down the empty hallway together.

"I know," Dean said softly. "And that hurts. You miss and it's not fair that he can't come back, but you have to be strong. That's what he would want, okay?" Hailey shook her head in disagreement. "Hey, no. Come on. We're a team, Hailey. You can't leave me alone to do this. I need you. I know you think you're just a little kid, but I think you're really brave."

"Don't know how to be brave," she said in a small, cracking voice.

Dean sighed then pet her arm comfortingly. Her face, screwed up with terror and fatigue, ripped him to the bones. He inhaled slowly, keeping his boiling anger at this time, from spilling over and burning the child.

"You can be brave and be scared at the same time, you know," he instructed. "Did you know that? See, when I was your age, my mom…. My mom died and it was scary and I had to be brave, but the whole time, I was so scared. You know the difference between you and me?" Hailey shook her head. "When it happened to me, I was kind of all alone. Just me and my brother, and he was only a baby."

"I'm not a baby," she offered, brightening slightly as she lifted her chin.

"No, you're not," Dean agreed. "You're also not alone. I'm here. I'm gonna help you."

"How did your Mommy die?" Hailey asked, her eyes moist with sadness. "Was she sick?"

"No, something… attacked her, something bad," he replied feeling his throat tighten. "It hurt her really bad, and she couldn't get better."

His mind stole quickly the home in Lawrence where the woman who both was and was not his mother lived. He felt that excruciating twist in both his heart and his gut. On some level, he was betraying his mother, the one he recalled from an all-too brief childhood, by replacing her so willingly with this woman. Sure, the women were the same biologically, but they were not the same; how could they be? His mother was dead. Her death set the course for his life; her dying made him the man he was, the man who could help this child. Playing 'pretend life is normal' was a lie, no matter how much his heart enjoyed it.

"That's what happened to my Daddy," Hailey offered, dragging Dean back to the problem at hand. "Mommy said he got hurt in a war and never came home again. I wish he would. I tried to be good so he would want to come home."

"It doesn't work that way, Hailey," Dean said. "I remember, when my mom died, I was so confused. I didn't know why I couldn't see her or where she went. I even thought it was my fault, but you know what? It wasn't. It wasn't something anyone could fix."

Hailey shook her head and offered him a bright expression, like she was about to reveal a secret. The hope in her eyes clashed desperately with the evidence of the maelstrom surrounding them in her terrorized house.

"Tommy Rogers told me I could fix it," Hailey revealed, leaning in close and whispering. "He gave me magic."

Dean kept his face impassive and bit back the urge to glare or snap at the child. The certainty in her voice and the impish pleasure in her still tear-reddened eyes.

"Did he?" Dean asked, keeping his voice even. "Who is Tommy Rogers?"

"His grandma's a witch," she said. "I told him Reverend Kyle said that's bad. That God doesn't like witches, but Tommy told me that witches get their powers from God so if I ask the witches for help, they can tell God, and he could bring my Daddy back. He gave me a paper and we had a tea party and did the magic in his grandma's shed. His cat killed the bird for us."

"Bird?" Dean asked.

"For the blood," she whispered. "I didn't want to hurt it, but his kitty had already done it so Tommy used it. Was that bad? The poor birdie was already in heaven, wasn't he?"

Dean chewed inside of his cheek and hoped that Tommy Rogers was 18 and at least 5-foot-8. It would make kicking his witch-loving ass so much more satisfying. Also, Dean wasn't sure what the proper etiquette would be for dealing with a dumb-assed kindergartener who might have conned a little girl into raising a malevolent spirit.

He asked for and was given the special paper Tommy gave Hailey. She fetched it from a cubby hole in the dining room that housed a box full of her toys. One glance at the page told Dean the story. It was hoodoo. The paper, called a map or a board, was a bad tracing of a spirit board used in certain conjuring spells. That the spirit wasn't fully manifested was likely due to the fact the child wasn't strong enough and hadn't used all the needed herbs for the spell along with bird blood rather than human. Whatever the tiny duo manifested, Dean was sure it probably didn't want to be here anymore than Althea and Hailey wanted it here.

_Like me,_ Dean thought ironically. _You don't belong here anymore than I do. _

"Hailey, tell me every single thing you said and did when you… did Tommy's magic," Dean said, keeping his voice easy and mild.

She rambled for a bit, letting him know how Tommy didn't like playing with Barbie's and liked to pick his nose and ate worms if you gave him a few quarters, but eventually, she got down to telling him how they cast the spell. When she got to the part of putting her father's special watch into the sand bucket (she and Tommy didn't know what a clay crucible was or where to find one), she said she started to cry and it made their "potion" turn a bluish color and start to smoke. They got scared and dumped it in the puddle behind the shed and ran off (but not before taking back her father's watch from the mess). Hailey was afraid her mother would be mad because she used the watch. It wasn't hers and not supposed to be a toy, although Hailey liked to play with it.

Dean sighed and hung his head. The most powerful ingredient in this spell was the one that should never have been added: the tears of a grieving child. Dean's mind was drawn back to something Bobby told him once about there being a different sort of power in those when used in some real backwoods spell work. Dean didn't know what the child conjured for certain, but he was fairly certain he knew how to get rid of it.

The trouble was, to do so, he would have to break the child's heart.

"Hailey, you said you cried on your Daddy's watch," he began. "I'm going to need that watch to… make sure your Daddy isn't in any pain. See, Tommy's spell, was wrong. His magic didn't help. It's… it's hurting your Daddy. That's why he's throwing things and being kind of mad."

Hailey looked at him with worry and hesitation. Dean knelt beside her and offered her his best imitation of Sam's puppy dog eyes. He knew it would be easier of the child just retrieved the watch for him, or he was going to spend the rest of the afternoon turning the house upside down looking for it. The good news, he realized, was that the house was in such disarray no one would notice his finishing touches to the mess.

He paused, listening to the hot wind outside picking up as shadows in the room grew more dim, signaling the dark clouds he saw on the ride here were rolling not the area. Missouri's intel that the house had no basement and no storm cellar were fresh in his mind. It had been a long time since Dean was in a tornado and he did not care to repeat the experience.

After a few moments of swaying on her feet, chewing her finger and worrying in silence, Hailey again dove into her cubbyhole and pulled out a glittery pink bag. She dumped the contents and out fell a tarnished and dinged pocket watch. Dean looked at it oddly. It did not look like the watch of a young military man.

You have to give it back," she said, clutching the pocket watch tightly.

"I will," Dean lied. She would hate him for it in the end, but it was better than getting her killed. Alive and livid beat dead and… well, dead.

He lifted the piece, noting it was not ticking, and flipped open the face. Under the tarnish, he could read the inscription: Walter Jerome, 1978, 25 years.

"Walter Jerome?" he read out loud. He paused and thought on the name. "Damn it. Hailey, bring me the phone. Now."

The child sprinted for the cordless phone, making Dean miss his cell phone yet again. He really needed to get one of those. He probably had one, he realized. Where it was precisely was the question. Then again, considering Mary's desire to hover over him and control his contact with the world, she probably had it locked up in the house somewhere. While he dialed Missouri's cell, Dean made a mental note to search his mother's room the next time he had the house to himself.

"Wha'chu need?" Missouri said after the second ring. "I'm getting your salt as fast as I can. They don't keep it in the store this time of year. The clerk had to go in the back to find some."

"Walter Jerome," Dean said quickly. "He's in your notes about Althea. Who is he?"

"Her father," Missouri answered then spoke to someone else. "Here."

"Hello?" Althea's voice carried over the air, listless and lethargic.

"Tell me about your father, quickly," Dean demanded.

"He left us," she said. "They said he might have been involved in the fire at the hotel, but some other people said he just ran off with a woman who worked with him. My mother didn't talk about him much."

"What fire?" Dean asked, feeling the room grow cold as the table beside him began to vibrate.

"There was a fire in 1979 at The Bizmark Hotel in the middle of town," she said. "He was a maintenance worker there until it burned. He left that weekend. Why?"

"He left behind a nice watch?" Dean remarked, suddenly able to see his breath as the phone cut out. "Crap."

Hailey wrapped her arms around his leg and shook. Dragging her across the linoleum on the kitchen floor, he tore through the cupboards until he found a half empty bottle of Morten's table salt. He grabbed the child, pulling her arms off his leg, and stuck her in the corner beside the sliding glass doors. He poured all the salt in a semi circle around her and told Hailey not to move.

"Keep sitting down here, hug your knees and put your head down with your eyes closed and keep your hands over your ears," he ordered. The child nodded, her lashes thick with tears. Dean cupped the side of her face and gave her his steadies, warmest voice. "It'll be over in a few minutes. Sing… your A,B,C's, can you do that?"

Hailey nodded then bowed her head and cupped her ears. Dean could hear her muffled voice singing shakily through the alphabet. Then he cast his eyes to the stove and then the deck. He was looking for anything that could generate a high temperature flame because there was no way a simple match was going to pack enough of a heated punch to melt a watch and send the mutant spirit of Althea's father packing. Finding nothing, he raced to the bathroom, hoping to find rubbing alcohol or something equally as flammable.

He did not get far. One foot into Althea's bedroom send Dean soaring across the room where he kissed the wall, splitting his lip and drawing blood from his nose. The unseen force pressed hard into him, icy fingers dug into his back, reaching under his shoulder blades and threatened to tear them off. Dean gasped in pain as putrid breath filled the air around his nostrils carried on a wheezy voice.

"Get out," it said.

"Love to," Dean gasped. "Let the me the fuck go."

"Leave him," it hissed.

"What?" Dean croaked. "Who him?"

"You don't belong," it growled. "I don't belong. Leave. I will take you."

"Oh, like hell you will," Dean snarled as he wriggled sideways enough to free his hand and pull a handful of salt from his pocket, disbursing it in a sloppy fashion that still manage to cut the spirit in half and send it hissing into nothingness for a moment.

He charged into the bathroom and found a tall bottle of Witch Hazel. Dropping the plug on the sink drain, he filled the basin, again feeling the temperature drop. He dropped the watch into the puddle and fished matches out of his pocket as an icy grip latched onto his throat and threw him backward. What felt like a battering ram then crashing into his ribs, crushing all breath from his lungs. Spots of color popped before Dean's eyes as his head bounced off the wall, sliding downward and knocking his temple on the tank of the toilet.

Blood dripped from his head into his eye, forcing it closed as he crawled back to the sink, striking the match and tossed it into the sink. A small fireball burst upward, singeing the cabinet above, but prompting a high-pitched hiss from the now blackening watch. Dean felt the pressure on his chest release, although the pain remained. He clawed his way to stand again then reached for the window sill. He opened it, letting the stinging smoke out of the room. It was snatched and sucked out by the mighty wind pushing on the walls outside. Dean rubbed his eyes, noting the steady stream of blood cascading down his face. He winced and felt the world wobble. Looking down at the watch, he decided to let it smolder. He would dig a hole in the back and pack it with salt once Missouri returned.

The pain in his ribs protested the entire time Dean dug the shallow grave for the watch. He left Missouri to explain to Althea what happened. Her father had evidently not run off but instead died in the fire. The intense heat (or lack of concern on the part of investigators) never discovered his charred remains. Some piece of him remained attached to his pocket watch, one Althea said he only carried on Sundays when he went to church. The man was now at rest, having been half conjured by his innocent and lonely granddaughter through a screwed up hoodoo ritual meant to bring back someone else entirely.

As hunts went, it was simple, easy in fact. Which didn't make his new round of bruises and bleeding any less painful.

_Sammy, I forgot why we hunt in a team. Damn. I got my ass kicked here, dude. Can you believe that? Not even a supercharged spirit. This one was only at half-power, I'd guess, and he threw me like a damn demon. Cracked my friggin' head open on a toilet no less. Talk about a shitty day. Saved the kid, though. I got that part right. She might even forget some of this. Maybe. But it felt good, getting one of these right and no one getting hurt… other than me. Remember when we used to just have jobs like this? One life at a time, not the whole friggin' world? Well, I'm gonna make it easy for you this time, Sammy. You won't even know about even the simple stuff. I'll take care of you. I'll do it right this time. I'm gonna save you. I swear. I promise._

They left the Chilton house as torrential rains began obliterating the landscape. The car swerved in the brutal wind gusts, crossing the line several times. Fortunately, there was no oncoming traffic. Dean braced himself in the passenger seat as Missouri gripped the wheel tight and hunched over it, trying to see the road in-between the swipes of the ineffectual wiper blades. Although Dean had no recollection of the car accident his body had allegedly survived over the summer, the tenseness of his muscles and the frantic hammering of his heart at Missouri's driving made him wonder if he was about to have flashbacks all the same.

Dean pressed one hand against his throbbing ribs and held a plastic bag of ice to the growing welt on his forehead. The car sped along the highway, zipping back to Lawrence as the radio (cutting in and out) reported three tornados touching down in the region and wide-spread wind damage to trees, houses and power lines.

_Tornados usually avoid cities_, he thought listening to the reports.

"They ain't got no GPS to avoid them," Missouri said sourly. "You think nature is afraid of traffic patterns? Lawrence ain't got a restraining order for tornados, Mr. Genius."

The sky continued to pour buckets of water on the car as small debris whipped by in the raging wind, but things were not quite as dark as they had been several minutes earlier. Whether that meant he was no longer going to pass out or the storm was weakening, Dean did not know. Either way, he considered it an improvement. Still, it did little to lighten his mood. Dean seethed and flung the ice pack to the floor. He twisted uncomfortably in his seat and glared at her, his jaw muscles bunching in anger and pain.

"Why do you do that?" he asked. "What the hell did I ever do to you?"

"What you do you mean?" Missouri asked with a puzzled expression.

"The constant, nasty insults and side remarks," he snarled. "Okay, so I'm not a friggin' genius, but the dumb comments are getting a little old. I don't criticize you and believe me, I could because…"

"You ain't got nothing to say," she challenged. "I can read you, boy. You ain't got an honest nasty word for me."

"Call me stupid again and that'll change," he assured her.

"That's not me," Missouri replied easily in an empathetic tone. "I may be saying the words, but I can't always help it. You radiate that so damn loudly it jolts me."

"My stupidity jolts you?" he questioned. "What did I just tell you about calling me…"

"No," she cut him off and lay a calming hand on his arm as they reached the city limits, detouring around street closures due to emergency vehicles blocking several streets. "It's what you think."

He looked back at her mystified and lost.

"Dean, whether you know it or not, you push the world away with the vibes you send out," Missouri explained. "I think it's a defense mechanism so maybe you can't help it, but it's there and it's coming from you constantly. And it's powerful. It's like an armor you wear. I don't think you're stupid, but when your mind screaming it so loudly at me, I can't help from saying it sometimes. That's one of your problems. You've done it so much to the rest of the world that you made yourself believe it, too. Just makes the armor that much stronger; helps you hide who and what you are."

Dean said nothing. He wasn't sure what to think. Yes, he was good at playing dumb. No, he wasn't Einstein (the guy's hair alone was a nightmare). What his actual intelligence was, he did not know and had never saw a need to find out. He was a hunter. He needed to know how to survive and how to save people—and not in that order. Sam held delusions that Dean was much more than he would say. The kid thought he was a genius, but Sam's eggs had been scrambled more than a few times—waltzing with Satan in his melon certainly didn't do him any good. He said stuff like that to his older brother to try and manipulate him in his own efforts to save him. The truth was, Dean felt certain, that Sam was the brains of their operation. He was the researcher, the one who liked delving into books and wasting his life in a library. Dean preferred it that way. Libraries were generally out of the line of fire. Pushing Sam when he was younger to be the research and keeping him in that role as he got older was strategic on Dean's part. It kept his brother safer than being in the field all the time.

"You doing it right now," she remarked, curling her lips in disappointment. "You some screwed up, boy, if you can't see who and what you are."

"I know who and what I am," he remarked but his ability to see the specter in the Chilton house when Missouri could not made him wonder, but he wasn't ready to discuss that with the psychic just yet. He also wasn't ready to wonder about the ghost's insistence that he didn't belong. Dean hoped it meant nothing, but he knew in his life, it was rare that these things meant nothing. He just never got that lucky.

"You a bad liar, too," she chuckled, stoking his anger as his ribs protested against his position in the car.

"You gonna tell me what your problem is?" Dean asked hotly. "I'm not psychic, Missouri. I can't read your mind. I told you once to stop reading mine, Now if you're gonna continue then I'll give you a…"

"I'm sorry," she said quickly and looked at him with a wide and worried gaze. "I know how it bothers you, Dean. I don't mean to invade you. I'm just trying to make sense of all this, and I'm mad at myself so I'm taking it out on you because I screwed up. That's what I meant this morning about getting second chances. I got to do this right this time, Dean, but I don't know how. Not yet anyway."

"Do what right?" he asked cluelessly.

"Everything," she answered sincerely. "You told me how you first met me and what happened afterward. Everything I see in you here and now tells me that I made a mistake. You told me that you and your brother came to me. You came to me for help, and I failed you."

"No, you didn't," Dean shook his head. "I mean, yeah, you pulled a full Zelda Rubenstein and said this house is clean when it wasn't, but Sam and I handled that. That family was fine afterward and we moved on. It was actually one of our better days."

"No, I mean, afterward," she replied. "Dean, if the me that you met in your life has the gifts that I have now, I had to have known, had to have sensed what was to come for your family. Your brother, you said he had psychic powers. I should have been able to see how and why, but I didn't. Or worse, if I did, I didn't tell you. You feel guilty because of all that happened and that you didn't prevent it, well now so do I. I have these gifts to help people. I didn't help you—not enough. So many people, so much pain, so much sorrow, and I didn't do anything to help stop it. I'm sorry, Dean. I'm so sorry. That's why I'm going to help you this time. I don't know how yet, but I feel like this is my chance to do it right."

"Well, no offense, but I don't exactly need you to predict the future for me," he said. "I know the highlights and the big twists already. It's like Men in Black 3, you know when Agent J is on the rocket tower with the alien guy with the scorpion thing in his hand that shoots killer darts and…"

Dean's voice trailed off as she glared at him uninterested and not amused by the movie reference. He chalked it up to ruining part of the plot for her. There were still seven years to go so he was hopeful she would forget.

"I'm saying that I'm like my own walking spoiler alert," Dean continued in a more serious fashion. "I got a plan, too. I kill Yellow Eyes. I do it now, quickly, and none of that crap happens. Sam's visions stop—so will the powers the other kids got. No psychics, no one hurts Sam. No crossroads deal for me. No Devil's Gate opening so no extra demons roaming around wreaking havoc. Hunters of this world take care of what's here and we all live happily ever after, right?"

Missouri pulled the car to a stop in front of his mother's home. The rain had stopped and a hot, blistering sun was again burning through the clouds. The tree in the front yard had lost another limb. Dean wondered fleetingly where it ended up, but as the windows on the front of the house were intact, he decided he didn't precisely care.

"I don't think so," Missouri shook her head solemnly as she touched his hand gently. "Dean, things have already changed. You've seen it yourself. People you were supposed to save didn't get saved. That goes for everyone your father saved before you. This world, it isn't the one you know. And I have this… feeling. You can't trust everyone."

"No kidding," he nodded. "Sort of known that most of my life."

"No, I mean it," she said adamantly, gripping his hand tighter, emphasizing her point. "You have no friends here, Dean. None."

"Aw, not even you?" he scoffed. She looked at him flatly. "Fine. No friends, gotcha, but I've got my Dad and my Mom and Sam. They're family, but in my experience, family matters more."

"Sometimes," she nodded. "But your family isn't quite your family. Not here. Not now. Just remember that. You're new here, Dean. You only think you know more this time. That doesn't make it a fact. Now, go on inside before this storm blows you away. I'll call you in a couple days."

"The phone might be a problem," Dean shook his head. "I think my mother will listen in. I'll come see you."

"No, you won't," Missouri said confidently. "You ain't gonna be in Lawrence much longer."

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for your patience on this in-between chapter. Coming next, the reunions, starting with Sam.


	7. Chapter 7

Title: The Price of Happiness (Chapter 7)

Notes: Remember how I said this next update would have the reunion with Sam? Well, I was off by one. I just felt like Dean needed a little more time with his parents and finding out about himself before little brother makes his appearance and things get more… complicated. Sam fans, forgive me, and just hang on for another week. I promise you he will arrive for certain in Chapter 8.

* * *

Stepping from the air conditioning of Missouri's car into the hot and oppressive air outside was like walking into a wall. Dean's head spun and did a few back flips as she drove off. He took a steadying breath and surveyed the neighborhood with a quizzical gaze. The street was quiet, a deathly stillness in which nota bird or an insect could be heard. It made the hairs on the back of Dean's neck stand at attention. He stared for a moment at the tree in the front yard, now missing yet another sizeable limb. The missing branch was nowhere in sight. Dean shrugged, putting it out of his mind as it was not sticking through the roof of imbedded in any of the windows.

He stepped not the hush of the house, feeling a slight breeze behind him suck the door closed. His mother's vehicle was gone signaling she had not yet returned. That boded well for his plans on pretending he was home the whole time. The only thing necessary to pull that off would be to clean the blood from his hair and try to hide the small cut where the previously new scar had opened again. The roiling waves in his stomach told him he was either starving or feeling the effects of a minor concussion. Considering he felt a little nausea and a little hunger, he figured it might even be both.

Before he could deal with either, the phone trilled to life, making him jump and yelp in a way that would have had Sam laughing at him mercilessly for hours. Without big foot there to punish or bark at to calm his nerves, Dean simply swore loudly then answered the incessant summons.

"Hello?" Dean said breathlessly.

"Dean?" John's voice carried over the line with tone of alarm. "Thank god! Slugger, I've been trying to call you for 20 minutes. Why weren't you answering? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, just… uh… the storm," he said with a shrug. Seemed reasonable and had the added benefit of being mildly true. "What's up?"

"What's up?" John repeated and scoffed his exasperation loudly. "Well, there was an EF2 that just ripped through your side of town. That's what's up."

The fright, twisted into anger, filled his tone. Dean rolled his eyes and nodded, reliving years of brusque treatment from John with the same dual purpose. He was never able to say "I'm worried" or "I was scared." It was easier to shout, to scold, to berate. Doing so gave him a sense of control in a world over which he had no real control. Dean took a calming breath and waited to see if the tirraid would come or if the fit spent itself in those few syllables. He was also more interested in alleged path of the tornado. He didn't see in on his return ride with Missouri. He went to the front windows and peered down the street to see no swath of evident EF2, an 130 mile per hour wind, level of damage.

"It did?" Dean blinked and shrugged, wincing slightly as he did so. "Huh. I mean, I didn't see it. There was a storm, I know…" He walked to the back of the house, hearing the tell tale sounds of moaning wind, as if a window was left partly open. "Although, now that you mention it… Holy sh…"

"What is it?" John demanded, his voice urgent and worried. "Dean? What's wrong?"

"Uh, a couple broken windows," Dean said assessing the damage to the back of the house. "I should look upstairs, too, I guess. Damn, that's what happened to the tree. Huh. You'd think it being out front it wouldn't… Unless that's not the same tree…"

"Tree?" John repeated. "What tree? Dean, are you okay?"

"Me, yeah, sure," Dean groaned, massaging his ribs and looking for a towel in the kitchen not embedded with shards of glass to mop the blood from his hairline. "The house… not so okay. I mean, it's standing. Roof's still on so, you know, bonus, right? It just needs a little work with the whole window thing. Glass is blown out in the back door and the kitchen windows. Mom's gonna be pissed. Oh, fuck. Mom!"

Dean spun around and wished he hadn't. The world whirled like the tornado was spinning the house like the Gale farm. He gripped the edge of the counter, digging glass into his palm. He dropped to his knees, grinding glass into his jeans and hissing with pain as he did so.

"Champ, you alright?" John asked again, the worry still thick in his words.

Clenching his teeth and forcing a calm breath down his throat, he mustered his strength and resolved, offering John his best lying voice, the one he used whenever he told Sam he was fine despite spilling a pint of blood.

"I'm fine," Dean replied. "I need to find Mom. She left earlier. I don't know where she is."

"She's fine, kido," John assured him, sighing with relief as Dean's falsely calm voice fooled him. "She's with me."

Dean cringed on what that could mean and tried to push his mother's sly grin from his mind and her words about their "usually" platonic relationship.

"Okay, good, just don't elaborate on the how and the why," Dean groaned.

John laughed robustly, a deep, resonating chuckle that settled Dean's nerves and quieted his pounding heart.

"I mean she's downstairs in one of the car bays in the shop," John answered. "She was here with me when the storm hit."

"Doing what?" Dean asked then stopped himself. "No, wait. Don't answer that. I don't need more reasons for nightmares. You, her, a car lift or a dolly sliding under the… damn, I did it to myself. I want more amnesia."

"She was here to bitch at me about you," John replied. "She's still not sold on us going to Chicago, but I think she's finally seeing the light."

"But she's okay?" Dean asked, sighing as he relaxed further.

Despite his guilt ridden feelings about replacing the mother he knew with this version of her, the thought of anything happening to this Mary froze his blood in his veins.

"Well, she's frantic, of course," John said and could be heard tromping down the stairs from his office. "She's been trying to call you as well, but I guess the storm took out the nearest cell towers because she couldn't get a signal; that's why I've been in my office trying to call you on my office line."

"Wouldn't have heard it either way," Dean said truthfully.

"Went into the basement, good," John guessed. Dean let him live with the lie while he imagined John nodding in the same fashion as he had when his son's followed his instructions on a hunt. _Chopped it's head off, severing it through the cord, right? Good. Now, did you burn it completely and box the ashes in sanctified silver? _

"I was not anywhere near the windows when they blew," Dean answered, again truthfully. That whole lying professionally thing from his other life was damn useful, he told himself.

"Good, then I'll tell her you're safe and sound and dry and without a hair out of place from the big, bad tornado," John chuckled then called out. "Oh, Auntie Em, Dorothy is safe at the farm…"

Dean could hear a distant, garbled voice he suspected was his mother's. John spoke to her covering the phone slightly so the discussion was muffled. Dean heard her name and an assurance that John was speaking with Dean at that moment. He also heard mention of broken windows, a promise to swing by that afternoon to fix them and a caution to drive carefully, signaling to Dean that Mary was heading home.

"Glinda is on her way," John said.

"Glinda?" Dean repeated.

"Not allowed to call her Wicked Witch of the West around you am I?" John chuckled.

"Seriously, what is it with everyone today?" Dean scoffed. "No jokes about the Wizard of Oz in Kansas, Dad, especially in tornado season. It's like… casting a curse on yourself."

"A curse?" John laughed. "You're taking this witch metaphor too far, Champ. We need to get out of this state."

"Speaking of that, can we double team her about this Chicago trip?" Dean asked. "I think I want to go now. I'm ready, Dad."

"That's why she was here to see me," John explained. "She wanted to talk me out of it, but then she was asked in the store how long you were staying at home. It's official, the word is out and your cover is blown, kido. Once the storm coverage ends, they'll be parking their mobile units on your mother's front lawn, following you around and looking for pictures, video and interviews. You're going to need to relocate so you can have a little more privacy."

"Awesome, when are we leaving?" Dean asked eagerly, hoping it was that very evening, but was disappointed by the response.

"Maybe tomorrow," John said. "That is if you can get your mother to cut the umbilical cord once again so you can get in the car."

"FYI: Not helpful, Dad," Dean groaned.

Mary rushed into the house, flinging her purse onto the couch as she ran toward the kitchen.

"Dean?" she called breathlessly, her feet crunching on more shards of glass that he missed in his first pass at trying to clear up some of the mess. "Where are you? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, just be careful," he warned as she skittered to a stop in front of him. "There's glass everywhere."

"Oh my god!" she yelped as her hands flew quickly to his face, the small band aid he had placed there drawing most of her attention. "Honey, what happened? Your father said you didn't get hurt."

"I didn't," Dean defended.

"Baby, you're bleeding," she said. "Let me take you to the…"

"It's fine," he said loudly, tugging her hands away from his face. "This is from… this, the cleanup. I was over near the window and shifted the branch back. A piece of glass must have been just hanging in the window frame and it fell. It cut me, I guess. I felt a little scratch, but I didn't even notice it was bleeding for a few minutes."

It had taken him a few minutes of frantically creating possible scenarios before he hit on that one. Lying to John on the phone was one thing. Doing the same face to face with Mary successfully required a little more planning and a little less improv. His story sounded stupid and laughable, but it was innocuous and was the only one he came up with that did not involve him striking his head in anyway, which would have prompted her to drag him (possibly kicking and swearing) to the ER. This way, he could account for the cut and play it off as nothing, while not forcing him to hide it (which, after looking at the gash, he knew would be impossible).

"It happened just after I talked to Dad," he added, taking the man off the hook for any ire she wanted to funnel his way.

They might not be his actual parents, but their fighting still made him jittery and feel like a scared child sometimes. While the only "woman" whoever actually scared him was Lilith, when this Mary Winchester was pissed, he knew it was wise to not be the object of her anger. _This Mary_, he thought, _would kick my ass if she knew I never finished high school._

She accepted his story but made him stop cleaning up the glass, proclaiming his father could take care of it in a little while. She insisted on looking at the cut herself. Doctor Mom was not to be denied her examination rights so Dean was forced (after the slightest hesitation, it turned physical) to sit on the couch while she removed the bandage and pulled out the first aid kit.

"Well," she noted in surprise, "you cleaned it. The butterfly stitches are very straight, too. It shouldn't scar more than the place where your stitches were."

"Not my first time," Dean said then winced, hiding it in a flinch as she dabbed the area with antiseptic as a precaution.

Mary pet his hair gently as she took a seat beside him on the couch. Despite the coddling, Dean had to fight a grin. It was childish and pathetic, but the simple act of the maternal pat of his head both settled him and made him ache deep in his bones. Looking at her, lavishing concern upon him, both irritated him and made him long for it not to end. It also made him start to reconsider his plans. Maybe he could just wait this out, see if his brother started having problems and then deal with then when or if they happened... But his reason would have none of the stalling. Sam was the priority, regardless of how much coddling he was enjoying. Then, as if to reinforce his aggravation at being treated like a helpless child, Mary made her diagnosis.

"I think we should considering getting real stitches," she said nodding as if the decision was made.

Dean's grin disappeared and he clenched his jaw, biting back a sharp disagreement. He hadn't gone to a doctor for stitches once in his life—at least, never while he was conscious. This latest cut was laughable when compared to what he had sustained and survived in the past.

"We?" Dean repeated. "If you want some, I'm not going to stop you. Me? I'm good. This is nothing. It'll be healed in a few days."

"The possibility of infection…," she began.

"Sounds like a junior high science film," Dean cut her off. "I'm not going to get an infection. It's a scrape."

"You don't have a spleen," she reminded him bluntly.

"Getting stitches won't bring it back," he quipped. She glared at him with a flat stare. "I'll be fine. It's a tiny, clean cut."

"It's an inch long," she argued.

"Wanna see the foot-long chainsaw carving on my side?" he said. "Trust me, if I didn't get an infection from that…"

"You did," she insisted.

"Well, I got better—without a spleen," he said with finality. "This is a scratch. Now, I appreciate you caring… in that brutal drill sergeant way… but I'm good. Really."

Mary huffed lightly and snatched up the first aid kit. She stalked away, rebuffed in her efforts to play nurse. Dean wanted to call to her, to apologize, but he did not think it would do any good. She was worried and being mad seemed to be her default means of venting it. Of course, she seemed to have a difficult time being mad at him, which raised all sorts of questions. He tried telling himself it was her compassionate nature, but he suspected it was more fear driven. The casual comments both she and John had made left Dean to suspect Mary's relationship with her son's was (at times) contentious due to her Momma Bear approach to watching over her young. He felt sorry for the version of him who lived that life. The dumb SOB never knew how lucky he was to have an over-protective mother. Not that Dean needed anyone watching his back, but having someone whose first concern was his welfare as he was growing up would have been a priceless gift.

After a while, Dean heard her sweeping in the kitchen. He offered to assist but received just a hand halting his help. Sufficiently chastised by her silence and stony expression, Dean returned to the couch. He bit back a groan as the muscles in his side tensed and locked into knots. Deep breaths were difficult for a few moments, but the worst of the pain passed the longer he rested. He wasn't sure when he nodded off, a disturbing thought, but he suddenly became aware there as another voice in the house.

"KCTV and WDAF both called me," John said softly. "They wanted to verify he was here. They were calling their affiliates in Chicago. Some girl at a coffee shop told her roommate who works at one of the stations said he was there the other day. They're going to set up outside the house by tomorrow afternoon. Mary, I know you don't want him to go, but he doesn't need all that chaos. I agree he's not back 100 percent yet, but he's not ready for reporters. I mean, we still need to get someone to… over see all that."

Mary sighed. She reluctantly accepted that John's suggestion of leaving was a better idea than remaining. Dean winced at the tremor in her voice as she agreed he needed to leave. Her voice became even more muffled a moment later. Dean pulled himself off the couch and peered into the kitchen where Mary's face was buried in John's shoulder as she sobbed. Dean's heart clenched, squeezing all the blood from it as he watched her cry. John made soft soothing noises and assured her it would not be forever and everything would be fine.

"Why did they have to grow up?" Mary sniffled, stepping back and wiping away her tears.

"The alternative is worse," John said.

"John," she scolded harshly.

"I meant that you'd be stuck with two screaming toddlers who thought peeing in your potted plants was cool," he chuckled. "Which one of them did that? It was Sam, wasn't it?"

"Yes, but I always suspected Dean actually taught him," Mary laughed.

"So, you're onboard with us leaving tomorrow before the lunch hour traffic rush?" John asked. She sighed. "Mary, I won't let anything happen to him. I'll be with him the whole time. The very second he looks overwhelmed or like it's too much, we'll be on a plane to Kansas City. I'm going to let anything happen to him. Besides, you know I've always had better luck getting him to listen than you do."

Mary nodded with sadness. Dean took a step back, feeling like he was intruding on them and feeling wretched for the pain he was causing her. In all of his imaginings about his mother (and there were way more of those than he would have ever admitted to Sam), he never pictured her crying about anything. Thoughts of her smiling or simply being there for him and his brother were plentiful, but causing her any pain, even unintentionally, never occurred to him. He never wanted to do that. The mother he remembered was the woman who took care of him when he was sick. She was the one who read him bedtime stories and kissed away the bumps and bruises when he would fall. Her tears were usually hidden from him and were only drawn when she and his father would fight. They were never Dean's fault.

Only now, they were.

He wanted to say something, the right thing, to make her stop, to help her understand that him leaving was a good thing and no reason to cry. As his mind raced, looking for the magical phrases, he watched his father embrace her again to comfort her. Mary sighed heavily and melted not the embrace. Dean looked at the floor, wondering if there were any words he could offer to make this easier when he heard her yelp slightly. A split second later, John received a stiff backhand to his chest as his rumbling laugh drown her mild scolding words.

"Am I interrupting something?" Dean asked stepping into the room.

Mary turned quickly, a guilt flush on her cheeks, as she faced him, wide-eyed while sporting a plastered on smile. Dean raised his eyebrows and shook his head mildly.

"You're supposed to wait until the kids are asleep before you fool around," he noted uncomfortably.

"How you feeling, Slugger?" John asked. "Nice little cut there. You trying to change from a playboy to a bad boy?"

"It's nothing," Dean shrugged.

The pain in his ribs was less now. The stiffness was still there, but the throbbing was gone as was the persistent ache in his head. His impromptu nap had done wonders for him. He was glad Mary hadn't coerced John into agreeing that he needed a doctor's attention.

"So, are we still on schedule to leave tornado alley?" Dean asked.

Mary nodded, her pale face screwed up with angst and sorrow. She folded her arms and simply left the room. Dean opened his mouth to say something, but he again was stunned for a lack of words. Her heard her feet on the stairs a moment later and was left to look at John with a troubled expression.

"Help me get the glass back in this window," John said, patting him consolingly on the shoulder. "I'm getting dinner free if we finish this before she gets back down here and starts cooking."

The glass for the back door window took a while to replace and Mary stayed absent until they were nearly finished. John boarded up the other windows after explaining he would be back in the morning to replace the other two windows before leaving for Chicago. Dean shook his head and smirked. The man lost the house in the divorce, had to still pay for it with alimony payments, and he still served as the handyman for free. What Mary's feelings were for John was unclear, but it was evident to Dean, John regretted the failure of the marriage and would have done anything to make things right. _Poor bastard_, Dean thought and stifled a chuckle.

Dinner was a quiet affair. Mary had little to say and the tension in the room from the silence was high. John departed shortly afterward leaving Dean with a promise he would be back before breakfast and ready to leave by lunch. Dean returned to his room and packed his few belongings into the bag in his closet. It was a larger bag than normal for him, he mused folding the clothing. He finished and wasn't sure what to do with himself when he became aware of how quiet the house seemed. While not normally a bustling dwelling, there was usually music or the news on downstairs in the evening. Wondering about this silence, Dean descended to the living room to find Mary seated on the couch.

On the coffee table was a box and a variety of items: colored paper; a string of uncooked macaroni; some cardboard decorated with either small, battered pine cones or tiny desiccated husks of corn; some award ribbons and a book that looked like a photo album. Dean raised his eyebrows and wondered if his mother was either very bad at crafting or simply enjoyed a tortured form of the hobby.

"What's this?" he asked, approaching the couch. "You gonna be the next subject on Hoarders?"

"On what?" she asked, looking up and wiping tears from her eyes.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked with urgency.

"Nothing," Mary sniffled and smiled. "I was just… looking at things. I found this in the attic. I was just.. looking at it."

Dean peered closer at the debris in front of her and realized it was a collection of Mother's Day and birthday cards, several award ribbons and summer camp crafts. As he looked more carefully, he recognized his own scrawl on the cards, the handwriting he had as a child that is. He picked over the items and looked back at his mother with a puzzled expression.

"You kept all this crap?" he asked wide-eyed.

"This is not crap," she corrected him, lifting a macaroni necklace as gingerly as if it was a priceless Tiffany's creation. "One of my babies made this for me."

"Let me guess, Sam's stuff is in like three boxes," Dean smirked. "The emo nerd probably brought you home something every week from school."

Mary chuckled and blushed on behalf of her absent and disparaged son. Dean nodded then scoffed lightly. Sam's stuff probably looked a lot better, too, or at least had more thought put into it, he guessed. Sam had that thoughtful aspect to him whereas Dean was always in too much of a hurry if the sloppy writing and badly glued bits of paper and gobs of paint and glue were any indication.

"Well, that's what made your gifts so special," Mary said. "You didn't make them for me often so when you did, I cherished them all the more. Your father kept your trophies and baseball stuff. I know that always was more important to you, but this… this mattered to me. Not that I don't think your baseball awards or your old gloves mean nothing, but that was always your thing with your dad. This was stuff you did just for me."

She brushed tears again from her eyes, baffling Dean on the point of her sadness. He usually attributed the "in touch with feelings" gene in the family to Sam. While Dean considered himself a judge of a person, that usually meant whether you could trust them (usually not) and if they were dangerous (more often than not). Why his mother was crying and smiling confused him; he figured that had a lot to do with not really understanding mothers as his left his life too soon.

"It's okay, Dean," she said spying his uneasy. "I'm not losing my mind. I'm just… sad you're leaving. I'm glad you're getting better, but I like having you here. You left home one week after your high school graduation and you haven't been back for more than a week ever since between the farm leagues, college and then your career. I wish you were back here of your own choice and for better reasons than brought you here, but I understand why you want to leave."

"It's not that I want to leave," Dean replied. "I just… I have to do this."

"I know," she nodded. "I don't like it, but I know so I'm just feeling a little blue because you're leaving me again."

Sleep did not come easily to Dean that night. His mother's heart wrenching proclamation that he was leaving her _again_ cinched a cold knot in his chest. He did it again. He made his mother cry. She claimed they were not tears of sorrow but tears of sadness. He didn't ponder the difference, figuring it was another one of those mother things was as lost on him. He lay awake staring at the ceiling well into the dark hours, his mind racing from terror filled thoughts of not finding Sam once he got to Chicago to not being able to save him and his mother shedding a different type of tears, tears of anguish and eternal loss—the kind of tears Dean knew all too well.

There was also the problem of not knowing precisely how to get his Wile E. Coyote style plan to save his family started. Finding Sam was just step one. Dean knew what he needed to prevent from happening. The precise way to do that, however, was still elusive. With vexing thoughts causing him toss and turn as much as his bruises and cuts did, Dean woke to the sound of power tools as the sun poured through the gap in the curtains. He looked at clock beside the bed and was shocked to see it was nearly 9 a.m. Not overly interested in playing construction crew, he showered and dragged his bags downstairs just in time to see his father leaving and stating he would see Dean in a few hours at the garage.

Mary's tears of the previous evening were absent as she made him breakfast and chatted happily about her upcoming weekend plans. She dropped a few hints that she hoped he would be back in time for dinner on Sunday. Dean was noncommittal. What he was about to do was going to be hard enough, lying point blank to her just felt wrong. He hated that he was going to be leaving for longer than she could guess, dropping off the radar in fact and possibly putting her into a panic, but there was an evil plan in motion somewhere with his brother it's intended victim. Saving Sam was the key to keeping this life, the one where his family was basically happy and completely intact.

As the noon hour approached, Dean carried his bag to her car. She drove him, again in silence, to the garage, pulling around to the service side. John met them in the parking lot sporting and easy grin. He nodded to Mary and reached into the trunk for Dean's bag. Mary approached her son and put on a brave face that Dean knew was an act from the slight glistening in her eyes and the barely audible quake in her voice.

"Now, take it easy, sweetheart," Mary said stepping toward him. "Get plenty of rest and don't forget to take your medicine."

"If you are thinking of zipping my jacket for me or wiping my face, please don't," Dean shook his head. "I'm sort of demoralized enough with having my Mommy driving me to my Daddy's house. I feel like you just gave me permission for a sleepover."

"Mary, leave him be," John sighed, taking his bag from the back of her car. "He's fine."

She turned her attention quickly to John, handing him a handwritten list of some sort.

"That's his medication schedule," she explained tartly. Dean rolled his eyes and shook his head. "I gave you enough of his medication for four days. After that, he'll need to be back here."

"Or go to see his actual doctor in Chicago to get the prescriptions filled again," John offered, tucking the paper into his pocket. "I know how to take care of my son. I only dropped him on his head a few times when he was a baby. How much damage could I do to him now that he's an adult?"

Dean looked at him questioningly. John's broad grin made him chuckle and relax. Mary, however, was not amused. She turned a cold and sour glare on her ex who simply shrugged and dutifully patted the note on his pocket as he returned is attention to the bags.

He took the list with better grace than Dean would have. He stood behind Mary scowling and hating himself for it. His father assured Mary that he would keep to her schedule strictly and not deviate for any reason. From her stance, she sensed the patronizing tone in John's voice, but there was concern in his eyes that spoke much louder. He would follow the orders and see that Dean did as well. She then turned her sights on Dean again.

A lump rose in his throat as he hugged her, fearing that it could be for the last time. He didn't want it to be. He was convinced now that this was the life he wanted, the one he preferred, if only because everyone he loved was still upright and breathing. Not all of them knew who he was, or rather, knew the actual him, but that didn't matter. They still existed. That mattered more. If he could get to Sam and make sure he was okay, Dean's mind was made up. He was staying here. He wouldn't look for a way to get back—even if it turned out that Sam hated his guts. The kid was going to go to law school and the worst fate he would suffer were paper cuts and boring law lectures. He was going to get his law degree, meet a girl who liked his boring idea of fun, marry her and give their mother the gaggle of grandkids she wanted, Dean would see to that. For himself, he didn't have such high hopes. There was still a certain jaundice eyed bitch out that in need of a bullet or at least an exorcism until he got Colt's gun from Daniel Elkins. Dean wondered if he could also save that old man. That would be good. Elkins was good at hunting vamps—nearly drove the bloodsuckers to extinction. Keeping him above ground longer would save lives by cutting their number down more.

It was that realization that convinced Dean he couldn't put his old life aside so soon. He could keep Sam off the team. He could keep his Dad cruising toward a cushy retirement and he could keep his mom alive and hovering like a super nanny, but Dean knew now he needed to return to the world of hunting just yet. Baseball, while sorely tempting, just wasn't in the cards for him.

He and Sam had saved people, people who would die if a hunter wasn't there. While part of him resented that he could not avoid this fate, Dean also knew he was working with a great advantage this time: He had all the answers before evil struck.

If he did everything right this time, he could save Sam and then, maybe, just maybe, once he had derailed the apocalypse before it began, he could consider taking a shot at retirement. His plan was large and would be run on overdrive: Kill Yellow Eyes to save Sam, don't let the Devil's Gate in Wyoming open to let out the hell bitch army, and get that damn demon tablet so he could shut the doorway to hell himself. He smiled at the thought. He didn't know all the trials yet, but he only needed a prophet to figure that out for him. At this time, Chuck Shirley was the reigning prophet. Just by making this choice, Dean felt he had saved Kevin Tran and his mother. _Score two for the good guys in the first inning_, he thought with a lopsided grin. _Besides, Chuck whines a little less than Kevin; Kevin's smarter, but Chuck's not a child at least, and his mom isn't around to make me feel guilty._

Mary saw her son's odd smile and fixed him with a warning expression.

"You're planning something—I can see it," Mary said, her voice stern. "Whatever it is, remember: You promised me you would behave."

"Who me?" Dean shrugged impishly. "Always. I'm an…," he paused as the word _angel_ came to mind and stopped on the tip of his tongue. "I'm a boy scout."

"Uh huh," she folded her arms and fixed him with a hard look. "Try again only this time, make it believable."

"Okay, I'll try to be good," Dean replied throwing in a casual shrug. "No guarantees. Sometimes, things happen. Not always my fault. Dog ate my homework, stuff like that."

"That lip you're hearing," John offered with a rueful shake of his head. "He does not get that from me."

"I know exactly where he gets it from," Mary said but a playful smirk skidded across her lips as her ex-winked at her knowingly.

"Okay, if you two need a room, I can leave and…," he began but stopped as she wagged a scolding finger at him.

"Dean, I mean it," Mary said. "Take it easy. Take your medicine and do not over do things. Keep in mind two things: One, I do not need any more gray hair; and two, that I can and will track you down and drag you home if I think that's what needs to happen."

"Chuck Norris has nightmares about you, doesn't he?" Dean quipped, pulling Mary into a hug.

He silently promised he would do everything possible to see her again, to return to this place so she could scold him and make him breakfast, lecture him about who he should date and try to beat the sarcasm out of his language skills with her perturbed looks and sighs. His heart throbbed with anguish at the thought of leaving her, willingly driving away from her when more than half of him wanted to stay more than anything. If he did this right, he could be back and they could all live long and happy lives. If he did it wrong… He didn't want to think what that might mean. If he died in the process, that was an acceptable loss, but only so long as his family got to live. He would prefer it be a win-win for the Winchesters, but Dean wasn't banking on fate being so kind to him. Still, in the pit of his stomach, he felt the tiniest glimmers of hope. It could work. He could do this and maybe, just maybe, have a life with real choices of his own.

But that finish line was way down the road. His first hurdle lay directly ahead: Checking on Sam. Seeing that his younger brother was okay (or taking care of things so Sam could be okay) was his mission. Dean was going to do it right this time and truly save him, save them all, actually. He could feel it in his stomach and in his bones.

"Call me if you need anything," Mary commanded.

"I will," he said, squeezing her tight for one moment longer, fighting any tears that threatened to erupt form his eyes. "I love you, Mom."

She stepped back and blinked hard then chuckled as she was taken aback by the sudden pronouncement.

"Oh, I should have recorded that for the next time you tell me to get off your back or hang up on me when we get into an argument on the phone," she said pinching his cheek.

"I'm being serious," Dean said sincerely, catching her off-guard.

Her little joust hurt. He wasn't big on expressed affection so being rebuffed was a bit like being tazed. It stung and made him feel ache painfully. Marry looked back at him slightly embarrassed and a bit ashamed for her quip.

"I know you do, honey," she smiled then kissed his cheek and stroked it briefly cheek as she smiled warmly at him. "I love you, too. I will see you soon."

She then turned away, walked to her car and drove off. Dean felt his heart sink, but clenched his jaw against the sorrow as he waved to the rear window of her departing car. His eyes stung from tears he would not let fall and his throat was dry and tight making swallowing difficult. _At least, this time I got to say everything I didn't last time she left me_, he told himself.

Whether it was his own sadness or the chill of the damp morning, Dean started to shiver. His side ached again and the persistent throb in his temple flared for a moment. He swallowed with difficult and watched her tail lights disappear around the corner. He sighed quietly for a moment until he was startled at being reminded he was not alone.

"You ready, Slugger?" John called and jerked his head to the side of the building.

Dean nodded slowly, hunching is shoulders against the brisk wind. He followed John to the garage to find him packing the bags in the trunk of a small, mildly sporty car. Dean looked around a few times, confused. He stared back at John for an explanation. When none arrived, he was forced to ask the question.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked watching his father stow their bags in the sleek silver coupe.

"Packing so we can leave," John said.

"We're taking this car?" Dean asked, looking at the POS vehicle that screamed mid-life crisis.

"Yeah," John shrugged. "What's the problem?"

"It's a Chrysler," Dean said.

"Yeah, I know," John nodded.

"I don't…. I don't understand," Dean scratched his head dumbfounded as he stared at the vehicle blinking with his mouth gaping. "Are you trying to date a secretary?"

"Smart ass," John grumbled. "It's American-made, and it's reliable."

"This car?" Dean shrugged and looked doubtfully at it. "You're serious?"

"Dean," he shook his head.

"I don't understand, are we stealing it because no one will miss it?" he wondered.

"Stealing it?" John scoffed. "Very funny. No, it's mine. I'm just leasing it. Look, I lose business around here if my customers see some flashy import parked in the owner's spot."

"Buy a truck," he suggested.

"Your mother helped me pick this one," John replied. "This is the one she liked."

"Exactly, Dad," Dean nodded. "This is a chick car, and by the way, Mom doesn't know anything about cars. And, oh yeah, she divorced you."

"Did she?" John deadpanned. "Must have slipped my mind along with all that child support and alimony that disappeared from my bank account all those years ago. Now, if you're finished with This Week in Winchester History, get your ass in the chick car because it is leaving."

"I could steal you something better," Dean offered. John looked back at him with a flat and un-amused expression.

Long trips in any car that wasn't the Impala always left Dean feeling anxious and a little vulnerable. Baby was a member of the family, the one who was always there for Dean, the one who always loved him without judgment or reservation or argument, his older adopted sibling who took care of him. When Dad disappeared, he had Baby. When Sam disappeared, he still had Baby. In fact, the second worse year of his life was the one in which the Leviathans spread out over the land and the most unforgiveable thing they did (other than killing Bobby Singer) was force him to hide Baby in a storage garage where they could not find her. And yes, he had said it to Sam in one of his rants: _Nobody puts Baby in the corner_. Despite Sam's eye role, it wasn't cheesy. It was a Swayze quote. Dude could deliver a line even in a crappy chick flick.

Climbing back into the front seat of the Impala was something that Dean had actually dreamed of doing the night before. He felt cheated looking at this crap, two-door abomination of a vehicle. It was like Han Solo getting carted around on a scooter. This shit wasn't supposed to happen.

"What's wrong?" John asked sensing the change in his son's mood. "You changing your mind about going? If you don't feel up for it, you can stay here for a few days. We'll need to tell your mom, but…"

"No, I want to go," Dean sighed as he shook his head looked forlornly at the car. "Just… Hey, since I've come around to your way of thinking, let's take the Impala. Come on. It'll be fun."

"Take the Impala?" John repeated. "To Chicago? No. No way I am bringing my beauty into a city populated by maniac drivers. Wait, is this about… Dean, is this about the accident?"

John's caring and worried face, the one Dean did not recognize but found he did not mind nearly as much as his mother's worried expressions, was out in full force. He looked back at Dean expectantly, who merely shook his head in return.

"It was a terrible wreck, son," John said understandingly. "I know you were semi-conscious for a few minutes after it happened. If getting back in a car and driving all the way is making nervous, we can still fly."

"Trust me, flying is not going to make me feel better," Dean assured him. "I just thought it would be… better if we took a real car. The Impala is badass. This car is just… bad… and not in the good way."

John stared at him for a moment, assessing the truth in his words. Whatever he heard and saw convinced him of Dean's sincerity.

"The mileage alone makes driving the Impala insane considering the price of gas," John guffawed. "Some of us don't make seven figures a year, kido."

Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet and waved it in the air.

"Well, apparently, some of us do, so you're covered," he offered. "Seriously. I'll pay for everything—including premium, secure parking. I swear. Come on, Dad. Do not do this to me."

"Quit the diva act and get your ass in the car, Dean," John said simply and laughed as he waved off his wallet. "Or are you now going to begin begging me to let you drive?"

"Drive this?" Dean sighed and rolled his eyes then took his seat with resignation. "Pass."

Like with his mother, starting a conversation with John when Dean's mind was on fighting a battle he wasn't fully sure he and his brother won years earlier, proved difficult. Finally, he found himself defaulting to small talk about the garage. If the conversation stayed on cars, Dean was certain he could admirably acquit himself without raising fears from John.

"Yeah, we're having a great year," John said as they passed yet another car. "We've hired a guy who is a computer wiz and he's got us all connected to the internet so I don't actually need to be here to work some days. It's saved us a ton of money already just in phone calls. Now, I'm working out a deal with a few guys I know in Arizona to see if we can coordinate a rally. Got to do something with myself other than sit in the stands between January and April, right?"

"What's from January to April?" he asked, watching the road slide by, trying hard not to think it would look so much more pleasing and fascinating through the windows of the Impala.

"That's when we go to Arizona," John replied. "Your mother and I have that winter home in Mesa."

"You're divorced," Dean said skeptically.

"Yeah, you've reminded me of that once already today," John replied. "I also have a first-born with a twisted sense of humor and financial planning."

Dean looked at him with a mild expression and put together the story. He had purchased a house, as part of some investment of his income, in Arizona. He had either gifted it to or purchased it for his parents to use during the bleak Kansas winters. Whether it was also an attempt to get the Winchesters back together was not clear. Considering what Dean knew of his parents relationship, if that was his goal, it was destined to fail. They might have a season fling (a thought that made him shudder), but there would be no full reconciliation.

"I like the place, don't me wrong, kid," John said. "It's plenty big enough for the both of your mom and I to live there without stepping on each other's toes. I still feel a little odd living in the house while you stay in the in-law apartment out back."

Dean nodded, again assimilating the information. Mesa, Arizona. Home of the Cactus League and the Cubs Spring Training program. He and Sam were never in that area long enough to watch a game unfortunately. Dean realized in this life he must live there from January to April each year getting ready for the upcoming season. Stood to reason he might own a property there. Made even more sense that he gave the property to his aging parents. They would get more use from it than he would and could serve in a caretaker mode. Putting himself in an apartment on the property also made sense. Who wanted to live with their parents full time when they were adults and not hunting ghosts and monsters?

"Well, I'm not going to live in the same house with my parents," Dean offered. "Two of you, one of me, makes sense you'd have the house. Unless you think the two of you could live in the apartment together…"

John's sudden barking laugh was all the answer Dean needed.

"It's bad enough your mother thinks giving us the house is your subconscious attempt to put us back together," John shook his head. "Don't start putting us in smaller quarters or she'll be certain that is your goal. If you need more space, kido, I can move into the apartment. Of course, that would mean you and your mom would be living together full time."

His rumbling laugh irked Dean somewhat, but he found himself chuckling lightly along with his father after a moment.

"Yeah, I didn't think you'd want back in Momma Bear's den full-time," John smiled and elbowed Dean in a friendly fashion as they merged onto another highway. "It was all we could do to keep you living under her roof during high school. No, when you first bought that place for us three years ago, I thought it was bad idea, but you were right. We worked it out, and it lets us watch you play during spring training. It was even better when Sam was in California. We were closer to Stanford of half of the year."

"So, I blew my rookie salary on a house for you and Mom," Dean nodded. "Wouldn't have expected that. I mean, I don't recall the particulars of the purchase."

"No, you just blew your signing bonus on it," John laughed. "We wouldn't let you spend all your money. Had to convince the owners you were a good risk. Putting that kind of coin down on a 23-year-old with only a few summer seasons in the farm leagues? Hell of risk. Buying a modest home for your parents showed… stability."

"Smart," Dean muttered.

"Worrywart owners were reassured pretty quickly," John said. "They just needed that little nudge. After all, you are the best they've ever seen."

"The best ever?" Dean raised his eyebrows. "Sounds like a parent talking."

"It is," John laughed and slapped Dean's knee. "But I'm also a damn good judge of a ballplayer. The facts backed me pretty quickly, though didn't they: Rookie of the Year 2002, Golden Glove 2003 and 2004 and World Series MVP 2004. Case closed, Mister. They're gonna create an entire room for you in the Hall of Fame when you retire."

"Yeah, right," Dean scoffed, wondering how disappointed John would be with him when he quit the game that coming spring.

"You keep it up and they might rename Chicago Winchester City," John laughed. "Dean, I know you're a little hazy with your memories right now, but trust me: You're the best damn shortstop in the Majors today—possibly one of the best ever in the game. You think I would have let you give me your World Series ring if I didn't think you're gonna end up with a handful more before your career is done?"

Dean looked at the ring. He had noticed it when he spent the afternoon with his father at the garage. He didn't pay it much attention and hadn't been sure how to ask about it without giving himself away too much. What if it was something the old man always wore? Asking about it would have just worried the guy. However, now that his father had opened the door, Dean felt free to inquire. He looked at it carefully.

"You wear my World Series ring?" he asked then tagged on a bit more not to worry the man. "I mean, everyday you wear it?"

"Your mother thinks I cherish it more than I did my wedding ring," John replied then grinned. "She's right."

"Dad," Dean scoffed. "Hey, not cool—even if it's true."

"I'm not saying I didn't love your mother, but face it, we divorced for a reason," he replied. "Still, this… Anybody can get married, kido, but not everyone does what you did. Someday, Dean, when you have children of your own, and you'll understand. They'll do something amazing—doesn't matter what it is, ace a big test, win a spelling bee, make the team, whatever—and you'll be so damn proud you'll want to brag about it to every person you ever meet. Now, you went a little beyond the usual so if I'm a little more vocal about it, that's your fault not mine."

Belligerent and competitive. Those traits Dean recognized in his father. The man was always right—just ask him—and his way was the only way, which made it the right way, or so he barked at his son's time and again (starting countless fights with Sam). Dean grinned hearing those not-so flattering traits being put to a more positive use and just knew that he was the parent all the other parents hated in the stands during games when Dean was still in grade school and high school. Coaches probably hated him, too. That was fine with Dean. The guy could be obnoxious, but Dean loved him for it all the same. He grinned at the thought.

"So you're blaming me because you're a loud-mouthed braggart?" Dean asked.

"Your mother and I should have spanked you more as a child for your backtalk, you know that?" John chided then shook his head but the side of his mouth curled in a grin. "Dean, trust me, it's a father thing. When you were born, I was excited but even more scared. First time, I saw you, it was like…"

"You say something sappy like love at first sight and I will hurl," Dean smirked.

"Uh, no," John shook his head. "I looked at you and I nearly puked. I mean, you were… gross and disgusting looking, all scrawny and slimy, like a skinned lizard."

"Skinned lizard?" Dean scoffed and gaped at the man. "So that proud father thing began when? After the World Series?"

"Hey, your mother said you were beautiful, but there's a reason they have that saying 'only a mother could love it,'" John shook his head. "And that was you… all babies, in fact. Sam was just as bad, maybe worse because he had even more of a cone head thing going on at first. Newborn babies are just ugly. All wet and slimy and screaming. Like something from the movie Alien."

Dean cringed at the image. It never occurred to him that his father was present the moment he was actually born. He wasn't aware that was something people did even in the late 1970s. It seemed more of mid-1980s starting trend, when fathers were more involved in the end process and expected to share the experience. The look on John's face was not one of awe at the memory. He looked disgusted.

"You were a Marine and saw combat in Vietnam," Dean reminded him. "How was seeing your newborn son worse?"

"It was a tense night: Your mother was screaming at me and called me names I didn't think she even knew," John chuckled. "And, like I said, newborns are not all that nice to look at. Plus, you were a surprise. I mean, I knew you were coming, but you weren't due for two more weeks so your mom going into labor caught us by surprise. One minute we were having dinner. The next, I'm running red lights to get your mother to the hospital because you were in fifth gear with the pedal down to meet the world. It was a hellish drive. There was this horribly thick, freezing fog outside. I was white-knuckling it just trying not wrecking the car with your mother screaming at me to hurry and drive faster. We just barely made it into the hospital before… there you were. I took one look at you and…"

"Gagged?" Dean offered.

John offered him a guilty smile and shrugged.

"I felt a little nauseous," John nodded. "Hey, you were nothing to look at and I was scared… for me, and your mother and mostly for you. We didn't know a damn thing about being parents and here you were, suddenly our responsibility. You were this little, helpless thing—and cross-eyed."

Dean repeated the word, blinked several times in surprise then shook his head. John chuckled again and continued.

"You grew out of that in a day or two, but I never forgot that feeling," he said. "I'd never seen anything so vulnerable as this little baby my wife was holding and then was laying down in my arms. You looked at me…"

"Like a cross-eyed alien?" Dean challenged. "Sure I wasn't looking at a hot nurse? Being cross-eyed, you never can tell with the old 'blew eyes' thing: one blew east, one blue west…"

John grinned but ignored the remarks. His voice had taken on a sentimental and calm tone that Dean could barely remember ever hearing from his own father. It would only pop up in quick flashes of his memory and only in those before his mother's death. Whatever part of the man was capable of those feelings died with her that night.

"I knew you needed me to… take care of you, watch over you and protect you," John said. "I didn't sleep much the first couple weeks. I kept thinking, worrying, about everything under the sun, leaning over to check on you where your mother kept you in that bassinette in our room until she felt ready to put you in your crib. I'd stare at you in the dark and worry about what would happen to you as you grew up and if I would be able to do right by you. I wanted to be able to give you everything you needed—not just things like a home and toys, but the other stuff. To be there for you, to do for you what my father never stuck around to do for me."

Dean swallowed hard and clenched his jaw. He wanted to tell John the truth, that Henry Winchester didn't abandon him, but he couldn't. There was no way to explain that. He was also struck by his own overwhelming feelings on his own losses. Of the many things John Winchester had done for and to him, being that stable parent who was there through thick and thin with encouraging words or a hug or a pat on the back simply weren't among them. Their lives didn't precisely allow for it—or so Dean told himself for years. Looking back, it wasn't hard to see that failure to do those things was a choice. Hunters were capable of caring for their families and offering that kind of emotional support. Bobby had done it for Dean and Sam for as long as they knew him (including the months after he died and hung out until he started to go dark side on them).

Dean stared back at the man who most certainly was not the John Winchester who raised him. He wondered how much of this man his own father actually could have been; how much was destroyed by years of fear and hate for the dark forces that split up their family; and how much he just left behind because it was easier. Dean wasn't sure if hearing this story of his birth made him more or less angry at the man.

His feelings toward John were always complicated. Dean adored the man to no end and resented the hell out of him for what he had put Dean and Sam through. He was Dean's hero and the worst role model he could have asked for. He was the person Dean wanted to be and hoped to never become. Dean might even go so far as to consider thinking of the man as abusive, but only in those moments when he was being brutally honest with himself (and Dean avoided those like he avoided fresh vegetables), or in those moments he wasn't remembering how the man sacrificed himself so that Dean would live.

There was no doubt in Dean's mind that his father loved him in his own way, but there was no disputing that he also treated Dean like a nameless, faceless foot soldier whose only value was in the help he lent John in hunting and in caring for Sam. Dean found it difficult to focus his angrier feelings on this John Winchester seated beside him. The damn guy was… too nice, too affable, too caring to be John Winchester. He was friendly and reasonable and jovial. He was damn likable and the kind of person Dean would have wished for in a father if life hadn't turned out the way it did.

"Little FYI here: You probably shouldn't give me the fatherhood is hard and having kids should scare you speech," Dean offered. "Mom is looking to be promoted to grandmother status and seems to have me on a timetable for making that happen."

The traffic passed along side them at a fair clip. Dean settled into the seat, feeling the warmth from the heated seat on his back, and felt a little unfaithful to his beloved Impala as he decided this wasn't such a bad aspect of his father's mid-life crisis vehicle. However, he could see where it would be a dangerous feature as well. Half of the reason he could stay awake when driving the Impala was that it was sometimes cold and lacked creature comforts.

"Don't let her rush any part of your life, Dean," John shook his head and sighed in a way that let Dean knew he had had this conversation with him before. "You have all the time in the world for that, Champ. Just focus on getting back on your feet. Never mind your mother and her white picket fence fantasies. You know that she lives with this fear that everything will come crashing down and destroy her happiness at any minute. It's the reason she gets so crazy about trying to protect you boys. She just can't roll with the moment. She's too uptight, which is why she and Sam fight so much—they're just alike that way. You've always been more like me. We understand that life is like baseball. Sometimes, you get thrown a curveball. You just need to keep your eye on it and adjust your swing."

Dean nodded, appreciating the analogy and that it was being offered by his father. Sam was the one more like John in Dean's real life. Of course, in that life, John was more like Mary in his fanatical devotion to his calling. For that John, it was hunting; for this Mary, it was being a mother. The funny thing, Dean realized, was that in his own timeline, he always had wanted to be just like his father. In this one, he did as well, only much more so and probably for the more virtuous reason that this John Winchester was a good man.

"Dean, you are damn good at parking the curveball in deep right field—always have been—whether it's on the field or in other parts of your life," John continued. "When I watched you grow up, every year, I was less and less afraid for you. Watching you become who are you… For a father, there really isn't any comparable kind of happiness. The worry's always there, but it's much less because you've found your destiny."

The word struck Dean in the temple like a haymaker. He shook his head. The sudden throbbing in his head forged back with a vengeance. He turned is head quickly to look out the window so his face was away from John.

"I don't believe in destiny," Dean said automatically.

He grimaced while his head was turned and forced a deep breath as he felt a pang of pain along his side, like someone was pressing down on bruised ribs. He adjusted his position wrenched his right arm to the side, as if thrusting away the invisible force. The pressure stopped nearly as quickly as it started and the waves of nausea from the pain faded. He blinked hard as the misty windows went in and out of focus.

"Well, I do," John asserted. "I believe in yours. Watching you on a baseball diamond, how could I not? It's like the universe is in perfect harmony in those moments. God is in his heaven…"

"Don't count on it," Dean muttered but was either not heard or ignored.

"…and all is as it should be," John said. "Nothing's ever given me the kind joy I feel as watching you play. It's not just that you're good, 'cause, son, you are great. No, it's not the stats or the awards or the recognition you get. It's the look on your face; that's what does it for me. The sportscasters call it your million dollar smile, but you're not grinning like that because you're making the big bucks. It's because you love it and that makes me so proud and envious. Not many people in life do what truly makes them happy, and I feel blessed that my son is one of those rare people."

Dean rolled his eyes. He didn't feel like he could speak between the throbbing in his head and the lump welling up in his throat. He was suddenly quite glad Sam, his Sammy, wasn't around for this. He'd have a field day with the family love-fest and want them to pull over and have a group hug and maybe write a poem about it or want to do an arts and crafts project to make an emo collage so he could scrapbook the memory for all time.

"Kid," John beamed, "I just knew, from the first time I saw you hit a ball that this was more than a game to you; baseball is a part of your soul. That's why I treasure this ring. It's not because it's a collector's item. It's not because it's a piece of valuable sports memorabilia. It's a treasure to me for two reasons: One, because you gave it to me; and Two, because it reminds me of that smile you have that shows how much you love the game."

"Yeah?" Dean asked, wondering why he had done that.

A World Series Ring was a remembrance for a great accomplishment. It was your own personal trophy for your team's win. Giving it away seemed like Dean didn't think that much of it. If the game meant as much to Dean as John claimed, surely he would have hung on to his ring.

"The game means everything to you, so when you gave me your ring, I was speechless," John said. "This was the marker for your win, your moment. I can guarantee you that no father whose son just won the World Series could be prouder, but then what did my boy do? You turned up on my birthday a few weeks later and give me your World Series ring to thank me for… just being your dad, like I wasn't already lucky enough to have that job already. Kid, you do amaze me. Always have."

"Really?" Dean asked, seeing is father's eyes get misty.

"Of course, pain in the ass that you are, you also made me cry in front of all my damn friends," John laughed. "Remember when I opened the box? I thought it might be a baseball from the size of it, like maybe the ball that was your grand slam—but instead I see this. And as if that wasn't enough, there's that note with it: _Thanks Dad, I couldn't have done it without you_."

Dean shook his head and smirked.

"Kind of a chick flick moment," Dean noted but felt a prickle of prideful tears under his lids.

John chuckled and grinned back at him.

"Yeah, Mike made a crack about all the guys starting to menstruate after a few moments," John recalled. "I mean, your mother made you the soup that put you back on your feet, but you gave me the credit for… I know you meant thanks for more than just being there to cheer you on during the Series. I get that, but I'm the one who should thank you, Slugger. Your mother may call you her angel, but, Dean, you're my hero. I always tell her that someday, when I grow up, I want to be like you."

"Rich and handsome?" Dean shrugged, uncomfortable with the accolades. "I wish you luck, old man. The key is practice, lots of practice."

"Funny, Mr. Smartass," John chided. "Do you know what I see every time I look at this ring? You with that huge grin on your face—the same one you've worn during every game you've ever played, whether it's spring training or the damn World Series or your first T-ball game." John shook his head as he spun the ring familiarly on his finger. "To me, it's like your five years old again just giddy with excitement that you get to play. Champ, even when you were just a little kid and could barely swing the bat all the way around, watching you play just gave me this… feeling. I could see how much you loved it. I can't believe I used to worry that you'd get cut from the team."

"Wow, a lot of faith in me, huh?" Dean laughed. "Glad you were cheering for me."

"Hey, I was trying to be a caring and supportive father the way your mother dictated," John said. "She said I was too competitive and pushed you too hard, so yeah, I was worried that if you didn't make the team that you'd be crushed because you loved to play so much. Now, look at you."

"Sitting in a crappy chick car, riding to a town you tell me is my home and telling me about a career I cannot remember," Dean nodded. "Yeah. Living the dream, Dad. Living the friggin' dream."

"Don't worry, son," John assured him. "It'll all come back to you. Something terrible happened to you and for whatever reason, your memory is… it's like it's on pause that's all. Don't try to force things. It'll come back when its ready."

"Right," Dean nodded.

"Trust me," John said. "I knew guys like that, back in Vietnam. They'd see something terrible and go blank, but eventually, it all filtered back."

"What if the things I should remember aren't… worth remembering?" Dean wondered. From his mother's stories, he had a failed love life (which frankly sounded awesome) but it concerned her greatly, which made him question what sort of idiot this Dean Winchester was when it came to women. One night stands with strangers when he and Sam were on the road were one thing, but messy break ups in the public eye was kind of douchy.

"You've got nothing to worry about," John assured him. "Dean, I couldn't be prouder of you and what you've done in your life so far. I figure, worst case scenario is that you never remember. Well, then the only thing to do is make new memories that are even better. I know you will, Champ."

* * *

**A/N: **Up next, time to catch up with little brother…


	8. Chapter 8

Title: The Price of Happiness (Chapter 8)

Notes: Finally, the dynamic duo reunites… sort of.

Hope folks are enjoying this. To those who post the unsigned reviews, thank you so much for taking the time. I'd write back and thank each one of you individually, but as the reviews are anonymous, I can't. Sorry. Thanks also to apester, Souless666, and Maximus Prime for their repeated kind words and feedback. Much appreciated folks. More chapters to come.

* * *

It was just after 9 p.m. when Dean got his first look at his "home."

He was mildly disappointed in it.

Oh, it was nice. But not opulent. Not extravagant. Not outrageous. It didn't even have a hot tub. It looked more like something Sam would go for; it was reasonable and functional and lacking in all the things a star ballplayer should have like his own batting cage, a super media room, and… well a hot tub.

It was large, had two bedrooms and a partial view of the lake. There lobby was art deco style, the building itself was from that period, and there was a secure garage under the building. The doorman looked like an ex-Green Beret and had greeted John like an old war buddy. He called Dean "Mr. Winchester" in a formal manner and indicated he would be keeping everyone who wasn't "on the list" from getting past the front desk. Whatever list it was, Dean was certain it was limited. Dean simply nodded his thanks and let John lead the way to the spot on the 10th floor that Dean typically called home.

The apartment itself was a simple, modern design. There was a sizeable flat screen TV and a fairly nice sound system (but not like his own movie theater). There were photos of baseball parks and the Badlands and what appeared to be a few National Parks on the walls. Dean looked at them with some interest. Again, his life with Sam did not give them the chance to take vacations. He wondered if these were just pictures he liked or shots of places he had been. There was both a baseball and a bat in a glass case and a bat on a rack attached to the wall. A quick perusal at the items identified them as the ball and bat that resulted in the Grand Slam that made his father so proud. He shrugged at them. The urge to grab the bat and take a check swing was strong, but he resisted. Instead, he wandered through the rest of the space.

The master bedroom was also simple and modern. The bedding and curtains were black. The floor was a highly polished wood. Two of the walls were red, two were white. There was a respectable TV mounted on the wall. There was a large closet considerably filled with a series of high end suits, nicer than the crappy ones he and Sam donned to fake their way through cases, and a series of other clothes (any item of which might cost more than Dean could win playing cards on any given night).

On the dresser, he spied two photos. One was of him and John on a boat surrounded by extremely, brilliant blue water. Having never been there, Dean guessed it was the Caribbean or Mexico. Wherever and whenever it was, they looked like they'd had fun. John was sporting a deep sun burn while standing proudly beside a large sailfish. Dean was on the other side of it, his mouth frozen in a half smirk and his eyes hidden by dark sunglasses. Fishing with the old man? Well, it was close to hunting (if you took out the life and death urgency, super evil crap and added in that it took place in daylight in paradise).

The other picture was of a colder day, if the clothing was any indication, but made Dean smile even more. In that shot, he and Sam stood on either side of Mary in the living room of her house in Kansas. Her arms were snaked around the back of her boys and her smile was bright enough to burn through the glass in the frame. _Christmas maybe_, Dean shrugged.

Despite Mary's inviting smile, Dean was drawn instead to his brother's face. Sam, towering over Mary, wore his sulky puppy dog eyes and forced fake grin—the one he put on his face when he was mildly pissed but hoped no one would notice it. From the shadows under his eyes, the kid was tired. From his looks, Dean figured the picture was taken within the last year or two, meaning he probably was still catching up on sleep from finals when it was taken. His hair, the floppy bangs and fly away sides, was nowhere near as long as it was when they entered that graveyard in Vermont. Dean smirked as he looked at his brother's mop in the picture.

_And I thought it was too long when he wore it like this_, he shook his head. _Oh Sammy, what am I doing to do with you?_

"Hey, Champ," John called to him. "You what do you want for dinner? I promised your mother you'd eat real meals, but I think we can call pizza a real meal considering how late it is."

"Late?" Dean questioned, stepping back into the open space that housed the living room and kitchen. "Since when are you Mr. AARP? It's not late. I mean, maybe in Kansas this is late, but not in Chicago. Let's go out to get something."

John sighed and restated his concerns. They had been on the road for more than 8 hours. Dean looked tired. Dean protested lightly, stating he felt fine and if John was afraid of his ex-wife… That was sufficient to get the old man putting his coat on again. John agreed they could go but they would not go far. There was apparently a pub on the next block. Eager to get treated like an adult, Dean slide his arms back into his coat and followed John to the door. The pub was literally around the corner. It was too early for there to be a large crowd inside so they were seated and served rather quickly. Dean noted the attention from their server. Her pale blue eyes lingered on him for longer than was necessary and made Dean wonder what his mother's objections would be regarding pretty waitresses. His pondering was quickly halted when John stepped in an altered his order, again nixing anything more adult in the beverage category than a soft drink. He, at least, didn't object to Dean getting caffeine. Still, it was too pedestrian for Dean. John's argument was the same as Mary's: he was on medication and needed to avoid adverse reactions. He considered telling John that wasn't true; he was prescribed medications, but he wasn't taking them (except the painkiller when his headaches got bad). Still, he refrained.

John might be easier going than Mary and growl at her over-protective Mamma Bear approach to her sons, but Dean heard the fierce worry in the man's voice when he called after the tornado and the sharp concern in his eyes when Dean first revealed his memory loss to the man. Poppa Bear was just as worried; he only hid it a little better.

"You do realize that your mother will skin both of us if she finds out we went to a bar after getting here," John said with a wary grin.

"Me, not a chance—she still adores me," Dean challenged with a superior and taunting grin. "You though… Man up, unless you're now willing to admit that you're afraid of her?"

"No, I'm not, but you are—adoration or not," John replied and pointed at him with a smirk. "You should be afraid of her, or at least not push her buttons for kicks. Remember the rule, kid: Don't poke the bear. She let you come on this trip because you assured her you would take it easy. You deviate from that and she'll lock you in your room for a month. She'll get a court order permitting her to do it, too."

"Court order? Like that would stop me," Dean scoffed. "I could escape, and even if I couldn't, you were a Marine. You'll break me out if we get caught."

"If?" John remarked.

"Hey, I'm not telling her if you aren't," Dean shrugged and gestured to the pool table. "You up for a game?"

"You shoot pool?" John asked skeptically.

"Let's find out," Dean remarked and ducked his head away as he fought off a smirk.

He grabbed the cue as his father racked the balls. John let him break and quickly regretted it. Dean smiled widely. His father was sticking to his mother's orders for what he could eat and drink so the whole idea of shooting pool without a beer at hand seemed wrong. Still, it had been nearly 10 years since he had shot a game with his father and never had he ever done so simply for enjoyment. No scams. No hustle. Just a game with his dad. It almost was enough to make Dean want to let the guy win… almost.

Dean ran the table quickly, finally dropping the 8-ball in the corner pocket on a bit of a grandstanding shot, hopping the cue over the 3-ball rather than taking the easier bank shot. His joy was tempered by the knowledge that his opponent hadn't spent years on the road shooting pool to get money for gas, housing and food for his children. Still, the stunned look on John's face was a prize in itself, Dean thought as he grinned widely.

"How did you…?" John gasped. "When did you learn to play and play like that no less?"

"Uh, long story so let's just say 'on the road' and leave it at that for now," Dean said evasively, setting the balls for the next break. "Probably couldn't get you to put a wager on this game, could I? Try and redeem what little remains of your pride..."

"Put your money down," John challenged. "I took it easy on you. I will school you this time, boy. "

"Fish in a barrel," Dean mused as he chalked is cue. "Candy from a baby… Sure. Whatever, old man."

He stripped a few twenties out of his wallet and lay them on the edge of the table. He was about to taunt John further when the room suddenly felt oppressively hot. Dean could feel a pulsing surge of heat erupting in his chest and forcing itself up his neck and into his head. His vision blurred and he saw double as he stared at his hands. It was like a transparent image of himself, like a ghostly image of his body, was slipping out of synch with the corporeal form. He could feel an unnatural pull, stripping him in half, like filleting the two parts of him. He was about to choke out a gasp for help, to let John know something was horribly wrong, when everything suddenly snapped back into order. Dean took a steadying breath as he gripped the edge of the table. As he recovered his compsure, an unfamiliar voice interrupted joined their game.

"Deano? That really you?"

A tall, slim man in his 30's was approaching the table with a surprised expression. Dean looked at his face with a vague recollection that he had seen it somewhere before, but he could not find the name. The man, roughly six feet tall, with a thin build had dark hair and dark eyes. He appeared shocked to see Dean standing at the table. John stepped forward and offered his hand.

"Nomar," John said confidently. "Saw the score. Tough break tonight."

"Yeah, well," the man shrugged. "Been that way lately. Dean, man, it's good to see you. You look good. How you feeling?"

He grabbed Dean's hand roughly then tugged him quickly into a brusque, manly hug. Dean nodded and hoped his face wasn't as blank as his mind. His father's word, Nomar, then registered in his head. Nomar Garciaparra. As far as Dean knew, he was supposed to be the shortstop for the Cubs having been traded to them that year from Boston. However, in this timeline, he and Dean had faced each other in the World Series a year earlier but now were supposed to be teammates.

"I'm… good, better, I mean, fine, actually, uh…," Dean replied cautiously. Whatever had just happened was now over so better and fine seemed a bit more optimistic than accurate, but he told himself it was the result of his concussion the day before, too much sleep and too many actual meals that did not come from a greasy fast food joint.

"Oh, don't worry, buddy," his teammate said nodding with an easy grin. "I'm just keeping your position warm until next Spring. I was actually liking my move third base more this season anyway. Looking forward to getting back there next season."

"Okay," Dean nodded.

"I didn't know you were even back in town," he replied. "Were you at the game?"

"No, we just got in an hour ago," John replied. "We're just in town to see Dean's brother for a day or two. Dean's doing great, but he's still got to take it easy. Doctors' and mother's orders."

"How is Mom W?" the ballplayer asked with a wide grin.

"Nervous I may die or, worse, suddenly become independent any minute," Dean replied with a shrug.

"Well, whatever she's doing, it seems to be working," he replied. "Let me guess, the magic soup? We were thinking we all needed some of that to help us this season. I'm thinking of asking for an early supply next year—just in case. Your mom should consider going into private security, Dude. When you left the hospital, I thought, the press would know in two hours, but they haven't said a thing. Your mom kept you locked up and protected like you were the gold in Fort Knox. That's pretty amazing."

"Fort Knox is easier to get at than Dean is when Mary's in charge," John chuckled in agreement.

"Hey, last home game is tomorrow," the ballplayer said eagerly. "The guys would love to see you, Dean—even if it's just for a minute. Hasn't been the same without you. If you're up for it, call Dusty. He can clear it and get the media off your ass."

"We'll think about it," John replied guardedly.

"Alright then, well, I gotta go," he offered, shaking John's hand again. "Take it easy now. John, always good to see you. Dean, take it easy; we need you back."

He nodded briefly, clapping Dean soundly on the shoulder, then stepped away, meeting up with others who nodded and waved but kept their distance. Dean looked at John questioningly.

"It scared the guys, you being hurt like you were," John explained. "Nomar was sort of the players' ambassador to the family and hospital. He came to see you every day that the team was in town while you were still in a coma. You probably don't remember seeing him after you woke up?"

Dean shook his head.

"You were still a little out of it," John said. "I let him and Dusty Baker know your mother and I were taking you home last week. I was going to call them if we were in town for more than a day, but the team is on the road the rest of the season after tomorrow."

"No post season this year," Dean said recalling their dreadful standings from the last box score he read.

"They fell apart after the All-Star break," John shrugged. "Losing you for the season hurt, big time."

"And the Cubs go back into the sewer," Dean nodded. "Typical."

"Not your fault, Dean," John consoled him.

Not that Dean cared much about the team or the season, but he did feel a twinge of guilt. _Great, add that to the reservoir guilt I've got going for everything else_. However, there was something in the ballplayer's offering that made Dean smile: The chance to finally see a ballgame with his father.

"Let's go to the game tomorrow," Dean suggested suddenly.

"You want to go to the game?" John asked. "You're not playing."

"Yeah, I got that, although if they're as bad as I'm hearing, I don't think I could do that much damage," Dean replied. John glared at him. "I mean: Can we just go and sit in the stands to watch like regular people?"

As long as he didn't have another one of those near-out-of-body experiences like a few minutes ago, putting off his plans to hunt and kill a demon in order to see a game was too good of an opportunity to pass up.

"I don't know, kido," John said. "You realize that you'll get noticed."

"I'll go incognito," Dean grinned. "I'll wear a hat and sunglasses."

"Oh yeah, that'll make you completely unrecognizable because you don't ever get photographed like that," John said flatly. He rolled his eyes at Dean letting him know his costume solution was north of asinine.

"We'll sit in the cheap seats and blend in then," Dean offered.

"That might have worked in Lawrence, but not here, Dean," John shook his head. "That waitress making the bedroom eyes at you is probably in the back scoring a pay off by calling the Tribune to tell them you're back and out barhopping. No, let's just wait to see how you feel tomorrow, Champ. I'll call Dusty in the morning, and clear it with him; maybe we can sit in the owners' box so you won't be bothered."

"No," Dean shook his head. "I said like regular people."

"Dean, you are not regular people," John said. "I know you like to delude yourself into believe that humble boy from mid-west crap the PR people shovel, but… You usually have to travel with a bodyguard for a reason."

"I thought people loved me," Dean remarked.

"That's the problem, they do," John groaned. "Fans can be crazy—yours for the last year have been extra crazy with a side of whackjob—the girls expecially. Those groupies scare your mother more than the airhead models you date. And, even your fans aren't getting too close and grabby with you, they don't know their place, and they won't let you be 'regular people'."

Dean scowled and chewed the inside of his cheek as he stared angrily at the table. He leaned forward, his arms cording under the tenseness of his muscles; the muscles in his jaw jumped and bulged. After a moment of staring at him, John scoffed in surrender.

The old man grumbled something terse about working it out. He was worried that Dean was not up for having reporters in his face and that he might not be able to manage to sit through a whole game in the chilly Chicago weather. He even suggested that Dean might be more comfortable on his own, sitting in the dugout with the team.

"No," Dean insisted. "I want to go to a game with you, Dad—like that basketball game picture in your office. I want to do something like that, something I'll remember. Hey, maybe I can talk Sam into joining us. It'll be just three of us watching a game. Hotdogs and beer in the stands, like regular fans."

John relented with a shrug and a surrendering gesture with his hands. He did not think Sam would join them. Sam's lukewarm appreciation of baseball mixed with the kid's school schedule was working against them, he prophesied. His face grew deep worry lines but he grinned all the same, either because he wanted to do this or he sensed how badly Dean did. It was nice, Dean felt, having the man want to do something because it made Dean happy. Weird, but nice.

"We'll go, but no to the beer with your meds, and I don't know if your mother will agree that hotdogs constitute a meal," John compromised. "Just remember, if you disobey her orders the next thing I see will be the inside of my coffin. Here's the plan: We play tomorrow by ear and see what the weather is like and how you feel, okay?"

Dean nodded and felt a grin on his face. His whole life he'd wanted to go to a professional baseball game. He had held a lot of resentment toward his father for taking his half-brother Adam to games on his birthday while the guy never even let Dean watch a whole game on the TV when they were on the road hunting. This was a chance to fulfill a childhood dream. For one night, he decided, demons and destiny could take a back seat.

The only thing left to do was find Sam. That was the first and only other thing on his agenda the next day.

It took a bit of cajoling, but Dean got John to let him go to talk to Sam alone. Part of the acquiescence was due to Dean reminding the man he now had a cell phone of his own—he found it at the bottom of a bag John claimed he brought back to Dean's apartment from the hospital the night of the accident. Dean charged it but was disappointed to see it was simply a normal flip phone. Like with the apartment, he expected as a flashy baseball star who dated models he'd have something better than Motorola that only had a calendar and address book function. The only game on the thing was something similar to Tetras. It took him a moment of sulking to remember it was only 2005. The cool, smart phones were still a few years away from being invented. He briefly wondered if he could patent the idea for one; surely owning that idea would help fund his hunting career once he dropped out of baseball during the next season. However, while he might have a piece of paper somewhere that stated he had a degree in something, he didn't know jack about what made a phone work or how to create an App. He sighed and resigned to the possibility he would need to live off whatever money he'd made so far in life. Pocketing the boring phone, Dean promised his father he would stay in touch throughout the day.

Taking a cab (a completely unnatural act for him—he felt oddly dirty doing it) to the location where Sam was allegedly to be found that morning, Dean stood before the dilapidated storefront and squinted through his sunglasses in the chilly morning light. It was nearing 10 a.m., and there was a short line just inside the office waiting for assistance.

According to Dean's research the previous evening after returning from dinner, Sam was a part-time worker at a free legal clinic. What he did precisely was a mystery, but Dean was willing to bet his salary the job could be summed up on one word: research.

The front of the office area was cramped and stiflingly warm with all the bodies pressed tightly in line. He thought it interesting that no one looked twice at him—not that he minded, but he had expected a lot more adoration in the city that (according to his father and various news reports) considered him to be royalty. As Dean didn't believe in royalty (other than someone being a royal pain in the ass), he waited in line until it was his turn. The woman who sat at the desk in front of him acting as a traffic cop and secretary did not look up as he stood before her. She held her pen at the read and addressed him in Spanish.

"Sorry, sweetheart," Dean offered. "_No hablo español_."

"What?" she looked up, startled at his words. "Oh. Sorry. I was just… expecting… um…"

And there it was. The dreamy stare with the slightly parted lips and slow blink. She was petit and brunette with wide, dark eyes and very pink lips. Dean looked her over with interest and thought it a shame she was wearing such a bulky sweater preventing a more critical and discerning look at her.

"Hello?" Dean prompted as she continued to look at him without speaking.

"Hi," the brunette giggled as her skin flushed pink quickly. "I mean, oh my god. I'm sorry. You know, you look just like… Are you…?"

"Looking for someone, yeah," Dean nodded.

"Sorry," she blushed further. "Can I do you… uh, to you… I mean for you? Can help you?"

She stumbled over her tongue with her eager and breathy questions. She grinned at him, batting her thick, dark lashes hopefully, and chewing the pen in her mouth suggestively.

"Maybe," Dean said. "I'm looking for Sam Winchester. He's supposed to be here."

"Sam?" she swallowed and her eyes flew open even wider. "Sam… Winchester? So.. are you…?"

"Looking for him?" Dean nodded. "Yeah. Is he here? You can't miss him. Tall kid, probably needs a haircut, looks perpetually bored or sulky, uses a lot of big words and is generally a pain in the…"

"He's in the back room," she nodded, pointing vaguely over her shoulder. "I'll show you."

Dean followed. They passed through the ragtag lobby area into a larger room with a few computers and battered desks. Intense and tired looking people sat at them, typing furiously and looking over paperwork as their clients, all appearing to be in need of worker's compensation payments or green cards, sat beside them with a mixture of angry, defeated and scared expressions. Dean and his guide passed through this room into a dark hallway then to another, cavern like room that smelled of mold and stagnant air, sort of like Bobby's library only without the overtones of whisky. Alone in that room, sitting at a table surrounded by books while staring at a laptop, was a tall, lanky kid chewing on his lip and scowling. His bangs brushed over his eyebrows and he blew them out of the way carelessly as he read.

Dean felt his face split quickly into a wide grin. His brother looked tired and focused and grouchy and mildly underfed—just like a law student ought. There were no deep worry lines in his face, no haunted look from years of researching vicious, evil things, no scars evident from being beat and thrown and torn by supernatural creatures set on inflicting harm. His greatest worry appeared to be whatever deadline he was facing for his work and whether he was going to make his rent for the month. Dean's heart swelled with relief and he had to resist the urge to grab hold of him and crush him with a grateful hug. Instead, he fixed his face into an unreadable expression as he announced himself while Sam again huffed his hair out of his eyes.

"You know, a haircut can fix that," Dean said and watched as Sam froze in place. "Seriously, dude, five minutes with some scissors would do you a lot of good."

His guide, either not noticing or not caring about the reaction from Sam, jumped in for the unnecessary introduction.

"Sam, you have a visitor," the girl said. "You never told me that you knew… that you were related to… I asked you and you said you didn't even know who he was. What are you, cousins?"

Sam looked up and blanched. His expression as his eyes met Dean's was easy to read: fear. Seeing his older brother was not what he expected. What Dean couldn't discern was whether it was something he wanted or detested. The thought that Sam might not like he was not foreign to him. He'd felt that pain a few times in his life and had spent part of the morning preparing himself for the likelihood. After all, this life was nearly too good to last. His parents were alive and loved him; he was successful and apparently invincible and passably happy. Being hated by his brother would balance the scales, but that didn't mean Dean couldn't try to fix things.

"Hey, Earth to Sam," Dean waved and offered a friendly smile in an effort to ease the tension in the room. "You sleeping with your eyes open again or are you just ignoring me?"

"Dean?" Sam gaped, shifting abruptly in his chair like he was struck with electricity. "Oh my god. Uh, what are you doing here? How… um… how are you here?"

"I walked from out there," Dean replied jerking his thumb over his shoulder. He then looked at his guide. "Thanks, sweetheart. I can take it from here."

"You're really him, aren't you?" she said in a shrill voice and appeared to quiver.

"No," Dean shook his head and pointed from himself to Sam. "He's him. I'm me. No reason to mix us up. We look completely different."

She giggled and blushed.

"You are," she beamed. "You're Dean Winchester."

"That's what my driver's license says currently," Dean nodded.

"So are you and Sam related?" she asked. "I mean, same last name and all, but he said that…"

"Yeah, Cameron, I lied, okay?" Sam said stiffly. "He's my brother. There. Now, you know."

"Oh my god!" Cameron squealed and pinched Sam's arm. "How could you keep that from me? I asked you the day we met! I told you I was a fan." She then turned to Dean. "Wow. I am. I am a fan. I mean, like really a fan. I didn't even like baseball until I saw that piece about you on TV three years ago. My roommate's boyfriend is a huge sports junkie so he watches all that stuff and I normally ignore it, but… Well, everyone was talking about that huge rookie contract you got and all that money and how you probably wouldn't amount to much."

"Jury's still out on that," Sam muttered. Dean eyed him sharply but said nothing. Sam looked back at him strangely. Cameron didn't take the hint.

"After that, I was practically your stalker, I mean, with TV interviews and magazine articles," she said. "I even went to see you play in Arizona last spring while I was on break. You hit a single and I think it was a double and then you grounded out, but you turned a double play in the seventh which held the Cubs' lead. You were having such an awesome season until…"

"Cameron," Sam sighed.

"I'm so glad you're better now," she said sympathetically. "I posted on the team's webpage some get well wishes for you. Everyone was just so…"

"Cameron!" Sam growled. "Enough. Go man the desk up front."

"You really should have told us he was your brother," she sneered and walked away, throwing a lingering look at Dean.

"What are you doing here?" Sam asked instantly.

"Good to see you, too," Dean replied.

He had dealt with surly Sam before and the only way to get through it was to pretend it wasn't happening. It was that or deck the guy and he didn't feel like hitting him. Dean was too glad to see him to hit him… yet.

After a moment fighting some internal struggle, Sam sighed, got up, grabbed his coat and exited the room through a fire door at the back of the room. Shrugging, Dean followed and found himself standing in an alley behind the building beside a series of dumpsters.

"Nice office," Dean remarked, seeing his brother slouching in front of him with his hands dug deeply into his pockets.

Sam scuffed the ground and stared at his shoes.

"Sam?" Dean prompted. "Hello? Sammy?"

His head popped up at the nickname and brought a scared almost vulnerable look to his face. He appeared much younger than his nearly 23 years in that instant.

"I didn't know you were out of the hospital," he admitted, his voice quiet and heavy with guilt.

"Really?" Dean said, offering him a slight verbal jab. "Why not?"

"I mean, I heard on the news that you were maybe going to some sort of rehab place," Sam explained. "I thought that meant you were…"

"A drooling mess?" Dean offered. "In need of a helmet for something other than batting practice?"

Sam bit back a chuckle and threw a look at Dean that said the comment was in bad taste. Dean shrugged and grinned, pushing Sam to look away guiltily. That was all the answer Dean needed. After a moment, his brother looked back at him and shrugged.

"Well, you're still an ass, so I guess you seem fine," Sam observed.

"Yeah, I'm peachy, if you don't pay attention to the amnesia," Dean muttered.

"How did you get here?" he asked. "I mean, did you check yourself out or…"

"I've been in Kansas for, well let's keep it simple right now and say a week," Dean replied. "Mom let me take a road trip with Dad. Not that I needed her permission."

"Right, because you do so much to defy her when she's right in front of you," Sam remarked and smirked unpleasantly.

"What's with you?" Dean asked. "Look, my head is a little… a lot… hazy about things. The only reason I came to Chicago was to see you, so if you and I are arch enemies, it's news to me, okay?"

"Enemies?" Sam repeated and looked at him startled.

"I'm not here to cause you any trouble," Dean continued. "I just need to check that things are okay with you. I understand that we haven't talked in a while, so if things aren't… good with us and you want me to leave, no problem. I just have some questions from you. Once I get the answers, we may be done here, okay?"

Sam stared back at him.

"So you're here to lecture me?" Sam asked. "This is 'Sam's a terrible brother' time? _Selfish Sam strikes again_?"

"No idea what you're talking about, dude," Dean shook his head. "Let's put it this way. Before today, do you remember the last time we spoke? See, 'cause I don't."

"Uh huh, this is a lecture," Sam seethed.

"No, that's a factual statement," Dean disagreed. "Seriously, Sam. I remember who you are. I know your birth date and the crappy music you listen to; I know Mom and Dad and my name, but a lot of other stuff is just… It's like I woke up in a completely different universe from the one I knew. Dude, Dad had to tell me what year it was."

"You mean he didn't petition Congress to get the year changed to whatever you wanted?" Sam asked. "Wow, what did you do to lose most favored nation status?"

"Like that," Dean said and shrugged. "I have no idea what that means except that apparently it pisses you off. I'm at square one, well, not precisely one but close enough. Mom and Dad are hovering around me, acting like I'll break any minute, so I was hoping you could help fill in the gaps."

"You want my help?" Sam scoffed. "What makes you think I can help you?"

"Call it hope," Dean replied. "We have history. I get that. I don't know what it is, but I trust you."

"Since when?" Sam asked with a scoff.

"Longer than you apparently know," Dean said. "So?"

"I'm kind of busy here, Dean," Sam replied. "I don't get to take the winter off. I'm in school."

"You're not," Dean asserted. "I checked. You actually won't be enrolled until next semester. Nice lying to Mom and Dad about that by the way. For now, you're working here at this clinic and at the library as a research assistant—shocker. You'd make more money in an hour of hustling pool than you do at both of those jobs in two weeks. You can take the time off. Look, if it's a money thing, I'll pay you. Apparently, I can do that… with ease, according to Dad. I have no idea how much money I make or if I even have a savings account."

"You're fine," Sam scoffed. "Your first year, you made $450,000—roughly what a second or third year of a rookie contract would pay. They renewed you for three years after that and you currently make $2.5 million.'

"Really?" Dean blinked. "Not bad. Hey, why do you know that?"

"Because you put it in my birthday card," Sam replied flatly.

"Ouch," Dean winced. "Well, that's better than forgetting to send you a card at all, right?"

"Yeah, not nearly as bad as asking to buy my time," Sam said. "Never quite saw myself as a whore."

Dean laughed, not sure he was meant to, but the thought of Sam prostituting himself brought back memories of their hunt involving a ghost ship in Massachusetts five years earlier. Little brother got to be the boy toy to a horny dowager named Gert, who set her sights and her crafty and roaming hands on the younger Winchester. Dean still chuckled remembering his uptight brother faking his role as a cougar hound.

Sam misread Dean's smirk and got slightly hostile. His face got red and his words came in a righteous rush as he huffed indignantly.

"I mean, I'm the family valedictorian but you get paid a fortune to essentially be a grown up Little Leaguer," Sam sneered. "So, yeah, Dean, I think you can afford pretty much anything you want as all of your income is basically disposable, but that doesn't mean I'm for sale. Offer me $10,000 in cash and my answer is still no. That is, assuming Jimmy lets you carry cash. Does he?"

Dean blinked and looked back at his brother with a lost and blank expression.

"What?" Dean asked.

Sam's thorny expression and cold demeanor ended abruptly. He looked pale and shaken and suddenly very sorry. His eyes looked glassy for a moment, and he appeared to shiver.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam shook vigorously his head. "I didn't mean it. Not like that. I mean… How is he? Never mind. None of my business. That was… in bad taste. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

"What's none of your business?" Dean asked. "Who are you talking about?"

"Jimmy," Sam answered. "The last news I read said that was still… not doing well, but that was weeks ago. I haven't seen anything since. So is he… better?"

Dean shrugged and shook his head.

"Who's Jimmy?" he asked.

From Sam's sour and somewhat disapproving tone, Jimmy was someone important in Dean's life but was someone Sam did not like or approve of. That worried Dean. There was no indication that he was gay, but his revolving door of woman suddenly seemed suspect. Dean felt a surge of panic.

"Are you serious?" Sam replied.

"I asked the question, Sam," Dean said heatedly. "I'm telling you. I don't even know what I don't know at the moment. Mom and Dad start to get freaky when I ask them so that's the other reason why I'm here. Dude, whatever crap you've got against me, I'm asking you to stow it just for a bit. I need your help. Okay?"

Sam paused then nodded.

"Okay," he said. "Just calm down. Look, I don't have anything against you, Dean. I'm not mad at you."

"Feels like you are," Dean charged. "So, prove you're not and start with details about that last bit. I'm not even sure I want to know this, but who the hell is Jimmy?"

_Please don't say gay lover. Please don't say gay lover._

"Jimmy is your agent," Sam explained, and Dean exhaled quickly, relaxing with the revelation.

An agent. Of course, he would have an agent. An agent who dictated parts of his life or controlled his image. That made sense. Sam's seeming aggression toward the guy didn't add up, but maybe Jimmy like Dean having a geeky brother because it was bad for his playboy image, or maybe the agent was an obnoxious prick like the guy from Entourage. Some flashy dick in a thousand dollar suit. Yeah, Dean wasn't sure he liked the guy either even if he hadn't met him yet. If the guy kept Sam away from him or cause friction between them, he was getting a pink slip as soon as they met.

"He's your shadow, your attorney, your financial advisor," Sam continued. "Hell, he's your pimp as well, for all I know. You don't do anything without Jimmy approving of it or arranging it. He's the guy on the cell phone behind you in any paparazzi photo; he's the one everyone has to go through to near you."

Dean stared at him blankly then shook his head. Sam sounded jealous now, as if he had been supplanted in Dean's life by this unknown man. Sam went to college while Dean worked on his career and little brother got replaced as a companion and confidante. That made Dean feel better—not that Sam was upset, but that he had a reason to be. As brothers, they were apparently close, not as close as they were in the life Dean knew, but close enough that this little brother was feeling neglected. Dean was glad Agent Jimmy hadn't stepped in to order him around yet; he wasn't sure he wanted to do anything other than fire the guy if he was a controlling prick who side-lined his brother in his life.

"I have a friggin' keeper and babysitter?" Dean shook his head. "Why? What am I? The Cubs version of Rick Vaughn?"

Sam stared at him with confusion.

"Dude, seriously, pop culture knowledge will not kill you," Dean sighed. "Rick Vaughn. The Wild Thing. Charlie Sheen's character from Major League."

Sam nodded and shrugged accepting the explanation.

"No, he's not your… well, he's like your full time staff," Sam shrugged. "He takes care of everything so you can play ball while making good headlines and ditch your girlfriends without making bad headlines. Are you being serious or just screwing with me for fun? You don't remember Jimmy at all? Dean, the guy's like an older brother to you; I'm talking about your best friend: Jimmy Novak."

The name rang in Dean's ears. He knew it from somewhere.

"Wait," Dean paused. "Jimmy Novak? I know that name. Why do I know that name?"

"I just said, he's your agent and your best friend," Sam shook his head, snapping the words 'best friend' with an acid tone. "Come on. You tease him all the time about him becoming a priest because he doesn't know how to have any fun. You call him Padre Novak or His Holiness, and he doesn't get the joke. He was an former radio ad sales rep who showed up on Mom and Dad's door step when you were in high school and asked to be your agent. You thought he was a joke and made fun of the flat, droning way he talks, but he was the one who got UCLA to swing that deal with the Cubs organization for you to go to school and play for them rather than go directly into the farm leagues. Dad was skeptical and doesn't like him much, but Mom fell in love with him so basically he was hired. What was it he said? He read about you and felt that you were 'supposed to be his charge.'"

"Okay, that's a little creepy," Dean shirked. Then began chewing on the words '_his_ _charge_.' "Novak… Novak… Wait…"

"You really have no idea who I'm talking about?" Sam gaped and looked concerned. He stepped forward and looked squarely in his brother's eyes. "Dean, he was driving the car when the accident happened. He was, or still is, hurt."

Dean shook his head several times then the name and the accompanying face came to him: A blue eyed, nerdy looking guy wearing a trench coat.

"Oh, fuck!" Dean swore. "Cas! That might explain things. That's why he didn't answer me. Somehow, he's… Damn it. I don't know how this works now. Okay, I gotta talk to him."

That surge of heat and disorientation he felt while playing pool the night before returned in a flash. The world grew dark for a moment and Dean felt like he was being peeled out of his bones. His heart raced and his breath was squeezed from his chest. He thought he was about to collapse when the sound of Sam's voice pulled him back. The air suddenly was cool again and his lungs filled with ease.

"Talk to him?" Sam repeated and shook his head oblivious to what had just happened to his brother. "Dean, if the news was accurate, he's in a coma or in a vegetative state. You can't talk to him."

"Right, whatever, I've deal with less and had luck," Dean shook his head clearing it from the panic and confusion. "Where is he?"

"Dean?" Sam asked. "Are you okay?"

"The hospital," Dean insisted. "What hospital is Jimmy in now?"

"I don't know," Sam said. "Dean, I'm sorry. I…. Look, it was months ago and what I read said he was… Well, brain dead essentially and wasn't going to get better."

"We'll see about that," Dean said as he began dialing frantically.

The phone rang twice and was answered by a worried voice. Dean kicked the brick wall in front of him as he bit back a series of curse words at his stupidity. He never thought to look into the accident that supposedly wiped out his memory. He had assumed he didn't know the driver, that it was a hired car or a cab that got wrecked. If Cas was here and had been working with him and watching over him, then Heaven most assuredly was interested in him. Sam shrugged and made to walk away. Dean clamped a hand on his arm and shook his head, keeping his brother with him in the alley.

"Dean, sweetie?" Mary's voice asked over the phone. "Why are you calling? Are you alright? Where are you?"

"Uh…. Some street," he said unconcerned. "Look, I need to know where Ca… uh… Jimmy Novak is. Do you know where…?"

"Sweetheart, calm down," she said. "Now, tell me where you…?"

"I'm in Chicago," he said. "Look, I need to know where Jimmy is. I just… remembered him. Now, I need to go see him."

"Honey, why didn't your father tell you?" she asked.

"I'm not with Dad," Dean said and heard her inhale sharply and angrily. "I'm with Sam and…"

"You are?" she asked, her voice losing some of its tension. "Is your brother right there?"

"Yeah, he's standing right here," Dean said. "I have a babysitter, okay? Now, do you know where…?"

"Let me speak to him," she commanded.

"Now is not really the best time to…," Dean began, but her tone was sharp.

"Dean Winchester, give the phone to your brother right now," she ordered. "Honey, do it. Let me talk to Sam, now."

He sighed and scowled.

"She wants to talk to you," Dean replied then caught his brother's questioning and hesitant expression. Sam mouthed the word "no" and appeared nervous to the point of even being scared. Dean whispered sternly, holding out the phone: "Dude, it's your mother."

Sam shook his head and took a step back as he looked toward the phone with a frightened and agitated expression.

"Since when do you care?" Sam muttered. "You avoid her all the time."

"No, I don't," Dean shook his head. Then shrugged. "As far as I know."

"Why did you call her anyway?" Sam hissed and looked at the phone like it was dangerous. "Dad's always your go to for everything."

"Not helping, Sam," Dean whispered harshly thrusting the phone into his brother's hand. "Now take the damn phone. Man, she did that mother thing with her voice. It's like a friggin' Jedi mind trick. Don't tell me you can resist it, because I don't believe you."

Sam took the phone and spoke to Mary for several minutes, wincing and taking whatever lecture or instructions she was giving him quietly and painfully. He then posed Dean's question to her and nodded before handing the phone back. Dean received a more calm farewell and a request that he call her that evening. From the forced smoothness of her tone, he got the feeling she was displeased with both he and his brother, but she was at least still sufficiently worried about Dean's health that she was forgoing giving him the (possibly earned) third degree. He smiled at the thought; while he did not relish hearing any anger in her voice, there was something so completely foreign yet natural about the thought of his mother being pissed at him.

"Private care facility in Milwaukee," Sam reported. "He's got an uncle there apparently who is his next of kin. His wife won't have anything to do with him since he walked out on her to be your agent. Man, I didn't even know Jimmy was married."

"Yeah, and he has a daughter," Dean said and nodded. "So, Milwaukee? That's just a couple hours from here. Okay, let's go."

"Whoa, wait," Sam shook his head. "Wisconsin? Now? If you want to go see Jimmy, I'll book you a ride there from a car service, but I'm not going with you."

"You have to," Dean said then narrowed his gaze and folded his arms. "Mom said you have to."

"No she didn't," Sam shook his head, a little too vigorously.

"Yes, she did," Dean grinned. "She said you have to step up and be a responsible part of this family. I know she did. I could hear her, Sammy. She said you have to watch out for me. Didn't she?"

Sam hung his head. Dean's grin deepened. While not one to like anyone watching over him or taking responsibility over him, he could see this mother's guilt was hefty Kryptonite on Sam. It was much nicer seeing that weapon used on his brother. While never one to like seeing Sam in any pain, grief from their mother was a good hurt. The kid felt guilt, no doubt, but he was here to get a rash of crap from her and she was there to give it. To Dean, that was one step shy of paradise. His family wasn't exactly Brady Bunch close, but they were far from impossibly broken. He could fix where they were shaky and this could work if he could just get this whole little derailing the apocalypse thing squared way. Finding Cas, or at least his vessel, was a huge step in the right direction. If he did this right, he might even be able to save Cas as well. No falling from grace, no god complex, no vacation on the crazy train and no penance needed in Purgatory. It was the least Dean could do for the guy who fought his way into Hell to save his soul from damnation.

"I can't go to Milwaukee today, Dean," Sam said in a bitch tone. "Neither can you. She wanted me to remind you about your medication and that you either need to see a doctor or go home to get more."

"Fine, we're not going today," Dean said, reforming his plans. Leaving for a trip out of Chicago would take a bit more planning so that his parents didn't check him back into the hospital. "But you're coming with me. Now."

"No, I'm working," Sam insisted. "Look, I'm glad you're doing better even if you seem a little… paranoid or… out of sorts. Look, I have a job to do. I don't care if you throw money at me. I want to do this. I help people here. It feels like… like what I'm supposed to do."

Dean grinned. _So, no evil intentions, Sammy. Nice. Very nice. Sammy the bleeding heart. Perfect. Just the way he annoys me and just the way I like him. _

"Fine," Dean said, folding his arms and fixing his brother with a hard stare. "Go pretend to play lawyer for a little while, but Dad and I are picking you up here, five o'clock sharp. You're going to a game with us tonight. And before you even think of refusing or trying to worm out of it, just know I'm telling Mom and Dad you agreed so when you don't show, she'll call the cops and make them put out an ABP on you. Trust me. I know law enforcement. They'll do it in the end just to make her go away."

* * *

**A/N:** Please pardon the typos. Dashed this one off quickly. More to come.


	9. Chapter 9

Title: The Price of Happiness

Notes: Apologies for how slow this story is moving. I'm just having fun taking the Winchester family out to play. My professional writing is more demanding and active with tighter plot lines so this, for me, is play time. Things will pick up shortly. I'm just enjoying giving Dean a taste of a better life… for the moment.

* * *

Several minutes prior to the free law clinic closing its doors for the night, Dean stepped back into the lobby. His chest ached on his left pectoral muscle; the skin was inflamed under the bandage covering his new ink. It did not take him long to find a copy of the symbol he needed embedded in his flesh. The trick was finding a reputable artist who would do it as he asked and not add any augmentation (effectively nullifying the effect of the sigil) and one that would not advertise he now had it. That was one drawback he was noticing. It was nice having money and not having to hide his face, but being recognized was a pain.

He and his father were accosted at a restaurant at lunchtime. Dean was forced to sign 20 autographs and stand still for photos with fans who flocked to him once he was spotted. The only thing that worked in his favor was when he used the attention to convince his father they needed a diversion to avoid the crowd. He did not tell John how he was going to slip out of the place, just that he would and would meet up with him back at the apartment around 4 p.m. John looked at him skeptically but agreed—no doubt suspecting the plan would fail. Dean was certain he did not suspect his son would exist the third floor establishment by bypassing the security alarm on the door to the fire escape then descending unseen into the back alley.

Once on the street by himself, Dean headed into the seedier part of the city to a rundown tattoo parlor under the L train a few blocks from the Chicago Board of Trade. His chosen needle man was a former convict and covert member of a biker gang that were enforcers for some local drug runners. Despite that, the man was also the son of a man saved by a hunter named Jim Murphy. MacArthur Reedy looked at the prominent figure in his shop and was suspicious until Dean dropped the name of the Minnesota pastor and then held up his chosen design. Reedy, a man with a dark complexion, dropped a shade paler than Dean then nodded and ushered him into his private chair at the back of the shop. He did not ask Dean any questions and took his payment in cash. He was fast with his needle and Dean was out within an hour. A quick call to John arranged a pick up at Sam's workplace. Dean returned to the clinic on foot, blending with the pedestrian crowd more easily in the rougher parts of the city.

He stepped into the legal clinic to find his eager fan still occupying the receptionist desk. She watched him hungrily as he approached and searched the back for a sign his brother was ready to depart.

"Hi," Cameron, the eager desk clerk from the morning, said popping up at Dean's side with her wide grin and crazy eyes.

"No, are you?" he remarked and laughed dryly. Cameron also giggled and thrust a pen at Dean.

"Can you sign this?" she asked.

"Yes, no, uh, wait, why?" Dean wondered holding the pen and feeling suddenly trapped. It was one thing to get asked that by strangers in the restaurant, but in a legal office in a sketchy neighborhood from a self-proclaimed stalker, was a little disconcerting.

"It's called an autograph, Dean," Sam offered as he appeared striding quickly into the front lobby. He clapped his brother soundly on the shoulder. "You write your name down. You remember, big D then a little 'E" and then…" Sam paused in mid-insult and flushed with embarrassment. He looked a bit scared and a touch horrified and he stumbled over an apology. "I'm sorry. I didn't think about you're… I mean, what happened… Uh, can you… that is… how bad was… do you have any problems with… um, writing, now?"

"I can write my friggin' name, Sam," Dean scowled. "I just wondered what I was signing. That's all. It's a legal office. Didn't want to find out I was signing a contract to play for the damn White Sox. Geez, dude, give me some credit."

Sam grumbled a quiet sorry and sulked as he stood behind Dean slouching with his hands dug deep into his pockets. Dean scrawled his signature on the offered page and wondered (as he had each time that afternoon) if it looked anything like the signature of the person who the fan wanted to sign it. His number one fan looked at the writing then back at him with a starry expression so either she didn't know MVP Dean Winchester's signature or it was close enough to pass inspection by Fanny McStalker.

"I'm ready to go," Sam said, leading his brother outside. "How are we getting to the stadium?"

"Dad's picking us up in his POS chick car," Dean remarked. "Hey, speaking of men who are whipped by their ladies, didn't you have a girlfriend at college? Whatever happened to her?"

Dean asked his question cagily. Whether Jessica Moore was with Sam wasn't a concern per se, but if she was, her name had to be the first on his list of people to save. Her expiration date in his world was Sam's birthday in a few weeks. That douche nozzle Brady might be possessed in this reality as well. He had killed her on Yellow Eyes' orders. Dean couldn't let him slash the girl open and toast her on the ceiling again. The trick, he figured, to keeping this reality on the up and up was to make sure that everyone he and Sam saved previously didn't bite it in this version either. That, Dean was certain, was the price he'd need to pay to keep this life.

"Uh, yeah, Jess," Sam replied, looking amazed his brother knew about her. "We broke up just after graduation. I mean, I was leaving California for to law school. She's doing her senior year solo… or not. I heard from a friend that she's seeing this guy, Greg, a psych major who used to hang out with us."

"From a head case to a head doc," Dean shook his head. "Sorry, man."

_Check Miss Jessica Moore off the list and put her in the win column. One saved. Zero energy expended. Nice. _

"Just one of those things," Sam shrugged. "Anyway, I… I sort of met someone else, too. Recently. It's not really anything, but…"

"Oh yeah?" Dean grinned. "Look at you with the rebound chick."

"Dean," Sam sighed. "It's not like that. She came to the clinic looking to volunteer. She's… smart… nice. She's not airhead I met in a bar. She's a grad student from Massachusetts who is looking to transfer here. I was working the front desk when she came in and we just sort of started talking. I mean, maybe it's nothing, but we've got a lot in common… I think.

"Careful now, Sammy," he chided. "Picking up a chick who walks into your work. You start to follow my lead and your mother will start giving you the grandmother speech, too."

"My mother?" Sam questioned. "She's your mother, too, Dean, or are you changing your story that you told me when we were kids so that now you're the one who was adopted?"

"I told you that you were adopted?" Dean wondered. Sounded like a nice older brother act of torment. He nodded, appreciating the innocence of it.

"Yeah, and that I was left on the doorstep by a carnie, and oh once that I was bought by Dad from gypsies," Sam nodded. "I think that one was my favorite. So, gypsy blood or not, I think it's a universal law that each family only gets one Lothario per generation. You're it for us."

Dean nodded, taking the mild insult well. Over all, the kid seemed happy. Still, Dean could sense that something was bothering him, but whatever it was, it certainly didn't seem to be dreams of his girl being roasted on the ceiling. He figured it was too much to hope Yellow Eyes hadn't dropped by their house 23 years ago, but maybe enough had changed in this reality that the big prize fight was off the table after all. Maybe, Dean thought with a glimmer of hope fluttering in his chest, he wouldn't need to do anything in this life but just live it. Sam without visions meant Sam was not part of the Demon Idol finale that was to take place in Cold Oak, South Dakota in the future.

Mary Winchester turned on the TV then stood in front of the ironing board, as she did each week at this time, with the station tuned to the game which she listened to rather than watched. Not that she was much of a baseball fan. She only followed the sport because her oldest son played. That he wasn't playing that night didn't matter. She had a routine and she stuck to them, especially when she was feeling agitated as it helped her remain calm. She had spoken to Dean two hours earlier. He sounded fine, content even, after seeing his brother. She wasn't sure she would be so easy to forgive Sam. Still, if Dean was fine with his brother's detachment, she could cool her heels until she saw her youngest in person. If he didn't show up to Thanksgiving in two months time, she would go to Chicago herself and spank him if that's what it took.

She shook her head and cleared her mind as she focused her hands at the ironing task and her ears on the pointless blather of the commentators.

"And we're starting the bottom of the third here at Wrigley Field for this last home game of the 2005 season," Tim McCarver reported. "Chicago is picking things up a bit for this last outing for the fans including a little reminder of the team's fairy tale past. At the top of the 3rd, Lance Berkman ripped this slider out of bounds and looky who snagged it."

The camera followed the ball in slow motion as it banked off the bat and ricocheted into the stands, bouncing off the railing, just before being snagged bare-handed deftly by a man wearing a UCLA hat, dark, wraparound sunglasses and a leather jacket. There was a slight shadow of stubble on his chin that made him look his age; team stories held that on the days he shaved, he still looked like a college student and (until his face became better known) mortifyingly ended up getting him carded whenever he went out on the town with friends and fellow players.

"He's out of uniform and a little out of his normal position, but you can't fault the reflexes of a Golden Glove winner," McCarver chuckled. "That's right. Barely incognito in the stands, is none other than the Cubs' own shortstop, Dean Winchester."

Mary snapped her head around to quickly spy the TV. Dean sat slouching in the stands, huddled in a his jacket, wearing a sunglasses despite the late hour (no doubt from a series of camera flashes that had gone off in his face). He was flanked by his father and his brother, both creating a security perimeter around him as they viewed the game. The slow motion clip replayed again showing the hit and the grab.

"That ball rocketed off the handrail, and could have done some damage to any fan who wasn't playing attention but Winchester snagged barehanded it like it was a balloon slowly floating by," the sportscaster continued. "I'll tell you what: His fans don't need to worry about his hand-eye coordination rebounding after so many months off the field."

Dean, oblivious to the attention and commentary, turned the recently caught ball over and over in his hands, tossing it lightly in the air, teasing his brother by not giving it to him. The camera was on the Winchester trio as Dean played with the ball and, not receiving a rise out of Sam, flipped some popcorn at his brother, which elicited a sour look and instant retaliation.

"Well, there's all the proof anyone needs that this game is a fountain of youth," McCarver chuckled. "Baseball makes everyone a little kid again. Doesn't matter if you're 20 or 80 or even last year's World Series MVP. Winchester is 26, and his younger brother is a law student here in the city, but looks like the Winchester boys aren't above a little horseplay in the stands. Of course, it also looks like Poppa Winchester's going to step in and instill some order. I don't know. Can you still ground the World Series MVP?"

While the commentators chuckled over the air, John could be seen reaching his hand over and scolding them slightly while taking the bag of popcorn away as the boys clearly could be seen briefly jockeyed for ownership of the armrest they shared. The tussle ended a moment later as one could see them mouth the words "jerk" and "bitch" to each other followed by Sam stripping off Dean's sunglasses and pointing to the field, as if telling him "Hey, Hollywood, the game's over there." Dean slipped the glasses over the bill of his hat, reached over to the popcorn and threw one last handful at his brother. Sam sat stoically shaking kernels out of his shaggy hair.

Mary ran her hand over her face then walked to the phone and began dialing as the color commentary continued.

"I think it's safe to say all of Major League Baseball sighed some relief when Winchester returned to the park tonight," McCarver reported. "He's still on the DL after being seriously injured in that near-fatal car accident the night after the All-Star Game. From what I can see here, weeks in a coma don't seem to have slowed down those quick hands. Nor, apparently, did it dampened his enthusiasm for the game. I was able to speak with him just a few minutes ago off camera. I told him, after seeing that catch, that he looks to me like he could jump right back into the lineup, but his dad quickly let me know his son was just here as a fan tonight. For the rest of you fans and well-wishers, Poppa Winchester also told me that Dean is doing great and will be at Spring Training in February. From what I've seen so far, I don't see a reason to doubt that. It's no secret we've all been worried about this kid, but when I was speaking to him tonight, I saw that thing we've all come to love and expect from Winchester: that giddy and hungry look at just being here at the field. That look has become his trademark and calling card, like he's a kid on the first day of his little league season."

In the stands, John reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He looked at the display screen then answered. He murmured something to Dean who then turned to his brother. Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pad and a pen that he handed to Dean.

"Of course, the final call on whether Winchester returns will be up to the team doctor's, but they'll have to face the wrath of this city if they don't clear him, that's a guarantee," McCarver chuckled. "He was trying to stay under the radar tonight, but the announcers welcomed him back during the last break and let me tell you that this place was nearly as loud as it was during Game 7 of the World Series. You know, there are guys who fake humility and put on a humble act, but not this one. Winchester seemed genuinely taken aback by the fans' reaction. Again, just like a little kid. He was a little embarrassed by it. You could read his thoughts on his face clearly at all that attention: 'Forget about me; just watch the game.' Now that is a baseball player. That is old school."

The camera remained trained on the Winchesters as Dean held up his small, handwritten note: _HI MOM!_ John pulled the paper out of his hands, read it, then handed him the phone.

"I guess we know who's on the phone," McCarver chuckled. "Winchester's parents are frequent visitors here to Wrigley Field over the last three years. Mary Winchester, his mom, started a bit of a supportive fashion fad over the summer as her son was recovering. She was seen wearing a T-shirt with the words "Team Dean" on them as she would come and go from the hospital. Ever since, there are a few hundred here in the stands every night because this is Winchester Land. Just watching him here tonight with his brother and his father—and now taking a long distance call from mom—you can see that they're a very close family. So, hello out there to Momma Winchester who is checking up on her boys tonight. Dean's the oldest of the two boys. He was just released from the hospital recently. Looks like maybe Mom's just making sure he's not trying to go back to work too soon. Now, the Cubs could have used him… and his mom's soup this season…"

Mary hit the mute button on the remote and focused on her son.

"Baby, you shouldn't be at the game," she said.

"We're just watching," Dean pleaded. "I'm not playing." _Although, they pretty much suck right now so I couldn't do much damage if I did,_ he wanted to add_. _"Oh, I caught foul ball. Did you see it? It was awesome."

"Yes, I saw that," she replied flatly. "Did you eat dinner?"

"Uh, yeah, we… _ate_," Dean replied and turned as Sam began laughing and Sam smirking. Dean silenced him with a jab of his elbow.

"Don't hit your brother," Mary commanded. "He'll push you back, and you shouldn't be horsing around. Besides, you're an adult and supposed to behave better."

"Better than what?" Dean wondered.

"What did you eat?"she inquired.

"Eat?" Dean repeated. "Food."

"Dean," she scolded. "You need to eat real meals and get some rest. Give the phone to your father. Now."

Dean sighed and handed the phone back to his father with an apologetic look.

"We're in trouble with the female 5-0," Dean said quietly. "Sorry."

John scoffed then shook his head and smiled as he took the phone.

"Mary, we had lunch late and we're eating junk here at the field," John confessed. "I know it's not great, but it's not going to hurt him either. We're going to eat after the game—a real meal at Dean's apartment. I've already called in the order, and no it's not pizza. We'll pick it up on our way back. We're having some relaxing fun…"

"He's diving for foul balls, John," she seethed. "That is not relaxing."

"He didn't dive," John said. "It bounced right to him."

"It likes me," Dean smiled and flipped the ball in the air again. "I could do this all night."

"He's not even tired," John added.

"And I'm wearing a coat," Dean offered helpfully.

John rolled his eyes and slapped down the bill of Dean's hat. Sam laughed boldly.

"And he's wearing a coat while being a smartass," John offered flatly. "Mary, he's in a ballpark. This is his Nirvana, you know that. Look, he couldn't be safer or happier. I promise you we will leave the stadium right after the game. Don't worry. He's going to eat a real meal and take it easy."

"Yeah, we'll read him a bedtime story and tuck him in," Sam continued to laugh as he reached over and gripped the edges of Dean's jacket closed. "To make sure he doesn't get cold."

Dean slapped his hand away and the two of them jostled each other again. Dean felt certain he would pull a muscle in his face if he grinned any wider, harder or longer. He actually felt giddy, better than any buzz Johnny Walker Blue could give, and was certain this was one of the best days of his life. He had just talked to his mother; and he was watching a pro ball game at Wrigley Field with his father and his brother. This, he thought as the shoving match with Sam continued, was what heave should be.

"Mary, I have to go," John growled into his phone as he cast a warning glance at them. "I need to babysit the both of them."

"Why?" Mary sighed. "What are they doing? John, Dean's not well enough to be messing around with Sam like they were little kids. His bones are healed and he's not showing any bruises but he…"

"Mary, he's doing fine other than goading his brother into behaving like a 10 year old," John said. "I'll take care of it. We'll call you in the morning. Boys, say good night to your mother."

John held the phone up.

"Night," Sam said quickly and sunk into his seat in a sulky fashion as Dean took the phone again.

"I'm fine, Mom," he assured her. "I've… I've actually never felt better—ever, in my whole life. Honest. Don't worry."

"Sweetheart, that's just not going to happen," she sighed. "Promise me you will take things easy."

"I will," he said. "I've got Dad and Sam here to keep an eye on things."

"I'm glad you and your brother are having fun, but you need to take it easy still, Dean," she reminded him. "Now, you have a good night, honey. Get some sleep. I love you."

"Love you, too," he said, disconnecting the phone and handing it back to John.

"Aw, Dean _wuvs_ his _Mommy_?" Sam teased. "Is she gonna call and tuck her _widdle_ man into bed later? Maybe read you a bedtime _sto-wee_?"

"Shut up or I'll tell her you spilled beer on me and I caught a cold from sitting in this chilly weather soaking wet," Dean smiled in a nasty fashion.

"No, I didn't," Sam protested. Dean then offered up a fake cough.

"I can't believe I still need to do this," John groaned then stood and waved at Dean to slid down into his seat. "You do realize that your both in your 20s, and I still need to separate you."

"He started it," Sam grumbled.

"I'm finishing it," John said sharply. "Stop smirking, Dean. I expect better of you. And Sam, as for you… Just… both of you watch the damn game and try to pretend you're adults."

Dean settled back into his seat and could not suppress the face splitting grin he felt tugging the corners of his mouth. He caught himself stealing quick glances to his left, watching his father and his brother seated beside him watching the game. That the team ended up losing to Houston 2-3 didn't matter. It wasn't a spectacular game, but it was a baseball game. Something tens of thousands of people kicked back and watched April through October; it was so normal, so average. Dean didn't know that he'd ever felt better in his life. The only thing missing was that his mother wasn't there. Talking to her on the phone, hearing her concern and overly protective orders to get some rest, was just about perfect.

On John's prompting, they left at the start of the 8th inning. The tidal wave of camera flashes nearly blinded Dean. The pain that shot through his head made him wonder if maybe he had suffered a skull fracture in the recent past. His knees felt weak and dizziness washed through him. That feeling like he was drifting out of his body returned and siphoned half of the breath from his chest and nearly as much strength from his other muscles. He felt a touch panicky but kept his eyes focused on Sam's back, keeping is vision as level as possible as they trekked up the steps and to the tunnel leading out of the stadium. He didn't feel his steps falter, but he felt his father's hand suddenly gripping his elbow then reach over his shoulders in a more protective but clandestine supportive pose.

"It's been a long day, Slugger," John said comfortingly. "I'm pretty wiped out. Starving, too. You?"

"Yeah, I guess," Dean shrugged.

"You're okay, Dean," John said, his gaze was steady, warm and reassuring him. "Let's get back to your place. We'll have dinner with your brother and then call it a night. Sound like a plan?"

Dean nodded. He felt too tired for words. The thought of food was giving him opposite reactions. Part of him was starving; the other part nauseous. He was having a hard time focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. If not for his father's bracing arm, he wasn't sure he would still be able to stand. The look in the old man's eyes that kept him focused.

Dean and Sam waited by Gate F for John to bring the car around. However, 10 minutes into the wait, Sam's fidgeting resulted in him hustling back inside for the rest room. Dean rolled his eyes and didn't stop him. Apparently, this Sammy didn't learn bladder control during long roadtrips; the beer he had in the stands was going to result in flood in his dad's sissy car. Dean rested on the concrete barrier at the edge of the gate and wrapped his arms tightly about him. His head was still swimming from the camera flashes and his eyes were still seeing colorful spots.

"You okay there, Mr. Winchester?" a gruff voice to his left called.

Dean turned to see a man dressed in Chicago PD uniform approaching him with a worried expression.

"I'm good," Dean nodded.

"You, uh, you looked like you're on your game again snagging that foul ball," he offered. "Good to have you back, sir. I was kind of surprised to see you back here. Really surprised."

"Yeah, you and me both," Dean shook his head, feeling supremely odd having a small talk chit-chat with a beat cop who knew precisely who he was.

As he looked up, Sam appeared exiting the stadium and shuffling Dean's way. At the same time, John's car made the turn toward the gate. Sam picked up his pace. The cop tipped his hat and started to move away.

"Anything wrong?" Sam asked arriving at Dean's side as the car pulled toward the curb, the lights dazzling Dean's eyes again, prompting him to raise his arm to shield his sight as pain stabbed at the back of his head.

"No," Dean said, as Sam pulled open the passenger door.

"Take it easy, Mr. Winchester," the cop said. "I'll be seeing you around."

Dean nodded at him then felt his blood run cold as his chin dropped. As the cop turned to leave, Dean swore the man's eyes flashed a jaundice and unmistakable yellow.

In that instant, Dean's blue heaven was blown straight to hell.

Dean ushered Sam quickly into the apartment as panic boiled in his stomach. He chewed the inside of his cheek as he realized he never bought the salt he meant to grab that afternoon.

It had been Azazel. It had to be. He could tell himself all he wanted that it was a trick of the headlights or his blistering headache, but Dean couldn't take that chance. Yellow Eyes was in Chicago. He was watching them. What he was doing chatting with Dean was a mystery. The murdering bastard never paid Dean much attention, never sought him out before unless it was to taunt him and torture him with lies about his brother. Sam was always his fixation, but he only appeared after Sam disappeared into the men's room.

Dean's awesome evening was going down the toilet, fast. Agitated, he tossed his keys on the counter top, sending them sliding to the edge. He shrugged, mildly impressed they didn't topple to the floor. This place wasn't home to him and certainly wouldn't be suitable for a home base when he started hunting again (something told him the Green Beret guarding the door would notice an arsenal being hauled up in the elevator). Still, it was a comfortable place to prep for his plan. He just needed to add a few devil's traps and line all the entrances with salt.

Oh, and Sam needed a tattoo. He wasn't sure how he was going to broach that subject, but drugging the kid and dragging him to Reedy's shop was not off the table. He was a bit of an armful to lift and carry, but if he doped him just enough to make him pliable to suggestion it was possible. Certainly for the right amount, Reedy wouldn't refuse or ask questions.

"I hope the delivery guy meets Dad in the lobby soon," Sam yawned. "I'm starving and whipped. I'll fall asleep in the cab on my way back to my apartment."

"You're not leaving," Dean said in an agitated fashion. "You're staying here."

"Dean, the bromance thing tonight was fun and all, but…," Sam began to object as he wandered the room, nodding and whistling lowly.

Dean watched him but noticed the air felt thick and hot in the room. It made his head cloudy. He swallowed hard and forced a deep breath as the weariness in his bones from the game suddenly crashed over him again with twice the force.

"Wow," Sam remarked appreciatively, walking around the apartment, oblivious to his brother's discomfort. "Nice place. Not a penthouse, but… I guess that's Jimmy's doing, keeping a reign on your bank accounts. This is nice but not… extravagant. Nicer than my place, that's for sure."

"Uh, yeah, it's boring as all hell except for the view into the apartment across the street," Dean said rubbing his eyes as he walked from the kitchen toward the couch on wobbly knees. "Chick across the way walks around naked without closing her blinds."

"That why you bought the place?" Sam asked, sounding like it seemed a reasonable answer from his brother while slyly peaking out into the night, wondering which place his brother meant.

"I guess, I… uh…" Dean replied vaguely.

His heart and mind were racing as he tried to figure what Yellow Eyes was doing in Chicago. They never found any of his "special children" in the city. The ones they identified were scattered throughout the Bible Belt, a laughable bit of irony in Dean's opinion.

He walked toward the living room, intent on getting his laptop to do some research when suddenly the room suddenly tipped sideways violently. Dean felt his knees give way and the floor rush upwards to meet him. All sound bent around each other and crashed together. After a moment, Dean could hear two sounds. One was loud and hammering. It took him am moment to realize that it was his heart pounding in his ears. He drew a ragged breath and forced his eyes open.

Sam loomed above him with a pale and panicked face. He was the source of the other sound. It was his voice Dean could hear. At first, he sounded far away, his words being drown by the sound of Dean's heart. Then, as his heart slowed, Sam's voice came into focus with the rest of the room.

"Dean!" Sam shouted. "Oh, good. Your eyes are open. Thank god. Can you hear me? Tell me you can hear me."

"Everyone in the building can hear you," Dean grumbled thickly as he tried to sit up but found himself cradled in Sam's arms. "Stop yelling."

"Man, what happened?" Sam asked anxiously. "One second you're talking to me and the next you… fainted."

"I didn't faint," Dean said, struggling away from him. "Let go of me."

"Just stay still," Sam said breathlessly. "Dad will be back in a minute. Or should I call 9-1-1?"

"No," Dean shook his head and regretted it as the room spun again. "Just… help me get to the couch, okay?"

Sam did so reluctantly. Dean felt weak. His limbs wouldn't behave or respond as quickly as he liked. It felt like he was moving through wet cement. As he climbed onto the sofa, he tipped his head back and inhaled deeply. Sam left his side momentarily then returned with a glass of water.

"Here, drink this," Sam said, tipping the glass into his mouth while placing a comforting and helpful hand on the back of his neck. Dean could feel his brother's hands tremble as he did so. He choked on the first sip then was able to swallow the next. "Good. Okay. Um, should I call… a doctor?"

"No," Dean rasped. "Look, just leave me be for a second. I'll be fine."

"Dean, you are not fine," Sam said. His voice was shaky and anxious. "You're white as a sheet. You're practically burning up and you just collapsed. What if you're having some sort of complications or relapse?"

"I'm not," he said.

"You might be," Sam insisted, cradling him tighter.

"No, I can't be," he said struggling away. "There's nothing to complicate or relapse. Nothing happened to me."

"Nothing?" he gasped. "Dean, you nearly died a few months ago. You had a skull fracture. You broke a bunch of ribs, punctured a lung and broke your leg. They took out your spleen; you bruised your liver and your kidneys."

"No, I didn't," Dean disagreed, managing to get to his knees with a great deal of effort. Sam grabbed his shoulder and helped him stand.

"Yes, you did!" Sam insisted, holding him upright. "Dean, you told me you don't remember the accident. Trust me. You were hurt—badly. What I just said, those are facts."

"How do you know?" he asked. "You never came to see me."

Dean could see the hurt on his brother's face as he spoke. He wanted to take back the words but knew he could not. He wanted to apologize but wasn't sure how or if it would help. He didn't have time for this melodrama. He had a friggin' mercenary demon on the loose in the city probably stalking his brother and now he was having a low blood sugar moment.

"I… read it on the internet," Sam said with tears in his eyes. "I got news alerts. Man, I'm sorry I didn't. I just… I was scared."

"Scare of what?" Dean asked, his head felt heavy and the air was nearly too thick to breath. He managed with Sam's help to sink into the couch.

"Of… dying," Sam said, his jaw quivering as tears formed in his eyes. "I know that probably sounds stupid, I mean, you were the one who was hurt but… Man, I just… There's a lot going on and… It's been 10 years—it was 10 years to the night in fact in July—and then you… I thought it was…"

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asked, hearing the worry in his brother's voice.

"Never mind me," Sam scoffed. "How are you doing now?"

The sound of John's key turning in the lock halted Dean's response. He forced himself to sit up straighter and take a deep steadying breath. He fixed Sam with a determined stare and issued an order just before their father entered.

"Don't tell him about this," Dean said. "Promise me you won't say a word."

"No, Dean," Sam shook his head.

"You owe me, Sam," he said. "Please. You stay here tonight, and you don't say a word to Dad. Promise."

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry this chapter is so short. More to come.


	10. Chapter 10

Title: The Price of Happiness (Chapter 10)

Notes: Again, thanks for the reviews. Also, apologies to those who have let me know that they "suffer through withdrawal" while waiting for the next chapter. Please take this as a warm and sincerely flattered thank you: Your pain gratifies me. :)

* * *

Dean pushed his food around his plate and pleaded fatigue (which was not far from the truth) in order to turn in for the night. Sam did the same, telling his father he was going to crash on the couch and spend the next morning with them. Dean grinned at that until little brother tacked on that his presence would alleviate the old man of any babysitting responsibilities. John, pleased at the evening of male bonding with his boys, did not question it and headed to the guest room. Dean scowled and headed to his room, leaving Too Tall to fend for himself on the couch. He had managed to kick off his shoes and prop himself up on his bed with his laptop when that strange, detached feeling overtook him again. One second, he was scanning weather reports and news headlines to look for signs that would signal Yellow Eyes was working in the area and in the next he was bathed in a cold sweat as it felt like something was sucking his soul out of his body. He was only able to pull himself together when he heard Sam's voice in the room.

"Are you alright?" Sam whispered, peaking into Dean's bedroom.

"Go to bed, Sam," Dean flatly, shutting the laptop to avoid roving eyes as he took a shaky breath. "I'm fine."

"No," Sam said, sticking in his sizeable toes as he approached the bed. "You're not. You didn't eat and it's not because you're tired. Dean, I know you want everyone to think you're back on your game, but I can see you're not. You have always been able to fake out Dad and let him see what he wants, but I know you. You're not alright. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Dean said. "I'm just tired. I'm not going to die so you can put the worried face away and get back to snoring."

"Just like that?" Sam scoffed. "Man, you never change. Everything isn't great and perfect just because you want it to be. Don't you think it's time you stop this '_fake it 'til you make it'_ act because you know it doesn't work. Are you that lost without Jimmy taking care of everything? Have you seen anyone about… you know… trauma issues?"

"Trauma?" Dean scoffed. "I'm good with trauma, Sam. Trust me. I got all my marbles in one bag; they're not loose and rolling around in my head."

Sam blew his bangs out of his eyes then raked his locks back in frustration. His face twisted into an angry sneer as he glared daggers at his brother.

"Cut the crap, Dean," he snapped in a low voice to keep their discussion private yet menacing. "You nearly died this summer. There's no way you're just fine with that. There's no way that didn't scare the hell out of you."

"Maybe," he shrugged. "You and Mom and Dad dying would scare me more. You're all fine so I'm okay."

Sam threw his hands is air and scoffed. Dean fought a grin as he watched the kid's bitchiest expression etch itself deeply into his face. Anger, frustration, exasperation and fear rolled off him in waves. It was the last one that wiped the smirk off Dean's face.

"Really?" Sam shook his head. "See because this whole 'I'm worried about my family' thing is no you. Since when does the Golden Boy worry about anything or anyone? You've always lived this devil-may-care-but-I-sure-as-hell-don't life. I'd say I was glad that you're finally growing up, but I'm more worried you're actually just covering for the kind of illness and injuries no one can see. You get that it's okay to be scared, don't you? Jesus, Dean, I was scared out of my mind when Dad called and told me about the accident. I hung up with him and I threw up and sat in my apartment just… I thought it was the end of you and that I was…."

"Yeah, about that," Dean regarded him skeptically. "You said I got hurt and you were afraid you might die. I don't get that. I was in the accident, not you. Dad said we had dinner that night, all of us, and then it happened. You were avoiding the family apparently, but you came to dinner. Care to explain that?"

"It was nothing," Sam shook his head. "I just… It freaked me out, the day, seeing you all. It felt like… it was supposed to be… goodbye."

"Goodbye?" Dean persisted. "What the hell does that mean? What's going on?"

Sam shook his head and sighed, a relaxed and embarrassed expression washed over his face. He raked his hand through his shaggy hair and shrugged.

"Just one of those stupid childhood things," Sam said. "Let's face it: Even before the accident, you purged most of your childhood memories. It's always been like you don't want to remember what it was like when Mom and Dad were happy or when they were fighting so you erased everything until you were 16. Me, I'm different. I cling to my memories and there was one in my head a lot last summer that was… strong. I'm sure you don't remember it but when I was in junior high, I wrote a story for my English class that won that award at the end of the year.'

"Wow, shocker, Sammy won a geek award," Dean rolled his eyes.

"Well, the shocking thing was that Mom grounded me for it," Sam offered. Dean shrugged cluelessly. He obviously had no recollection of it having not lived here for more than a week yet. "See, this is what I mean? You chose not to remember a ton of crap, Dean. I mean, she screamed at me for nearly an hour—like the neighbors were considering calling the police because she was disturbing the peace level of yelling. You tried talking her out of her rant and she even turned on you a bit, sending you to your room. Of course, you didn't listen. You left and ended up at Dad's a couple hours later so you got in trouble, too. Anyway, what started it was the story I wrote. It was a sort of horror story and Mom was… embarrassed I guess or disappointed in it because I wrote something she found offensive. You know how she never let us watch horror films or read Stephen King or other writers like that? What's it you used to call her when she would get all nuts about that stuff? Sister Mary Frances, well, she was like that."

Again, Dean shrugged. He could see Mary being a bit high strung on the subject, maybe not to the point of sounding more like a demon than a mother, but she was definitely not a fan of dabbling or playing with anything supernatural. Her cold and terse statement to Dean at the Eldridge Hotel in Lawrence that ghosts did not exist was a pretty good indication she was Jedi level of denial where the supernatural was concerned.

"Well, I was thinking about that story this summer," Sam shrugged as he sat on the foot of the bed and hung his head. "Just that day, in fact, I was telling someone, friend, about it."

It was the way he said 'friend' that caught Dean's attention most.

"Was it a naked friend and you were trying to impress her with junior high composition homework?" Dean smirked. "We need to get you better pillow talk subjects, dude."

Sam huffed in exasperation that begged his brother to be serious for just a few minutes. Shrugging and admitting defeat, Dean relented.

"Fine, so you freaked because of homework you turned in more than a decade ago?" Dean gaped. "We should get you some anti-anxiety meds before you actually start law classes—just to be safe."

Sam sighed and rolled his eyes but did not respond to the statement.

"My point is that in the story, you died, which is part of what got Mom so pissed about it," Sam said. "She didn't like the whole part about there being a curse by a witch that killed you, but you dying in the story didn't win any points for me either. Anyway, I had that whole thing on my mind when I saw you last so I think it just freaked me out when this happened to you. It was like my story was coming true and in my story, at the end, I also died."

"Do you have visions?" Dean asked bluntly.

"What?" Sam gaped.

"Straight up, do you get headaches and then see things that aren't there yet?" Dean demanded. "Or maybe have dreams and they come true? Do you, Sam?"

His brother returned a look that Dean could not understand. It might mean he hit a nerve. It might mean he was worried Dean had lost his mind. It bothered Dean that he could not discern between the two, but he figured it the visions had started, Dean's acknowledgement they were true might help the kid confess about them when he was ready. Secrets between them had always been their downfall. Dean was adamant he would not make the same mistakes this time has he had in his past.

"Look, things are crazy between what happened to you and me starting law school," Sam shook his head. "I don't sleep much at all, but I'm not hallucinating or anything. Besides, the subject of this discussion is you not me, Dean. You can pretend you're fine, but that doesn't make it true. If you need, help you gotta let us know."

Dean looked back at him flatly, rethinking his no secrets philosophy. If there was a way to keep the worst of the truth from the kid but let him have the necessary details so he trusted his brother, that might be okay. First rule of lying successfully: Tell mostly the truth.

"I need to see Jimmy," Dean confessed. "I can't exactly say why, but I need to go see him. You're right. He's a part of this, everything that's going on with me, I think. I don't think I should go alone. I don't know how much time Dad can take off from the shop to be with me so I… need you to help me, Sammy."

The younger Winchester turned a pair of glassy eyes, like those of a little child just told his puppy was dead, toward Dean and nodded slowly. Dean's chest ached in a different way from his present ailments. The kid was sad and worried. Dean wanted to make that pain stop—go hit something or kill something to make it better for Sam, but he couldn't. The pain was being caused by Dean and whatever horror story Sam had cooked up in his head to explain his brother's predicament. Sure, Dean had lied a bit in his plea for Sam's help. He didn't need the kid helping him. He needed him close by so Dean could keep an eye on him, but any port in a storm.

Dean ignored the feelings that Sam's expression was more pity than caring and there was more than a healthy helping of fear for himself because of a stupid childhood school assignment. It just reinforced the notion that this Sam was not his Sam. Yes, Dean and this Sam got along well enough, but there certainly wasn't the '_I'd die for you'_ bond Dean thought all brothers should have. Of course, in this life, they had been raised as normal children, two brothers with separate interests and friends, with their own bedrooms and their own hobbies. There were four years and full, independent lives separating them. There was something to be said, Dean realized, for leading the live of depravation they had in his world.

"Are you going to tell Dad what happened out there earlier?" Sam asked. "He can help, too. He's your biggest fan, you know."

Dean shook his head and bit his lip. First, it sounded a bit like Sam was trying to pawn off Dean on John. Again, that anorexic bond of theirs needed a little beefing up. Also, what could he possibly tell John when he himself didn't know what was going on? When he passed out (because only chicks and wussy guys fainted) it was as if he was simply no longer able to control his limbs. He felt like he was being pulled in two, like the part of him that could think and knew who he was, was being sucked away. He wasn't sure where the pain was coming from; it was as if an intense heat was erupting in his chest and head, radiating outward and burning him out of his flesh from the inside. All Dean knew for certain was that having dizzy spells menopausal hot flashes was wrong on so many levels.

Dean paused on the word '_spells_.'

_That might be a reason and a solution. So, find Cas, get a little expert help and make a run for the bat cave? Sounds like the start of a plan._

"I just need to take it easy," Dean offered. "I'll be fine, but I'd probably be better off if someone was with me. I'm asking you, Sam."

Sam wasn't far wrong when he stated John was Dean's biggest fan. The man was proving amazingly pliable when it came to getting him out of the way. He seemed grateful to run around and make contact with the team and with other people in Chicago who he seemed to think needed updates on Dean's progress. He wasn't as confident with Sam serving as Dean's babysitter if the two were going to leave the apartment, but a little cajoling from Dean and a promise they would check in regularly greased the rails nicely.

When he departed for a long morning of appointments, most of which Dean did not bother to listen to when John discussed then, Dean pulled the platinum credit card from his wallet and made a few arrangements of his own. As Sam rolled bleary-eyed off the couch, Dean snapped his fingers impatiently at a hastily thrown together breakfast for the kid. He was on the phone, making arrangements for a rented car, and told Sam to scarf the food down quickly as the rental company was dropping off their car in 20 minutes.

"Where am I driving?" Sam asked, stuffing nearly half a bagel in his mouth at once. Dean marveled at the accomplishment and felt like applauding but did not.

"Your place to get whatever you need for the day," Dean said casually. "You weren't ready for a sleep over last night, remember?"

Sam nodded and took in his rumpled appearance compared with the purposefully disheveled look of his brother. Sam's jeans were tired and paper-thin in spots and looked both stained and slept in. Dean's were mildly and strategically faded. The Henley he wore was comfortable but high-end cotton and, despite it being essentially a T-shirt and jeans, Sam blushed in embarrassment as he compared the two of them.

"Maybe this is why Jimmy doesn't let me appear in pictures next to you," Sam shrugged shyly. "I always thought it was because I make you look like a midget."

"Less talking more eating and walking, Sasquach," Dean said, thrusting the glass of OJ at his brother. "I mean it, Sam. We've got to get moving. We're burning daylight."

"Now I remember why I hated living with you," Sam grumbled as he downed the juice then tore another bite of the bagel while shuffling after Dean toward the door. "You're a pushy bastard, you know that? And since when are you a morning person?"

Dean did not respond. He hustled his brother down the stairs and sent a quick text message to their first appointment of the morning. He got the response he needed then patted his front pocket to feel the plastic bag with the crushed up pills in it. Sam leaned tiredly against the back wall of the elevator. Dean hoped the kid was with it enough to make the driver to whatever craphole apartment he called home at the moment. Making him eat a bagel was a calculated choice. It would keep his stomach full enough so that the roofie he had just slipped into the kid's OJ wouldn't hit him until after they got to Sam's place. It wasn't a big dose of Dean's painkillers, just enough to make the kid a little less resistant. The second dose was the one that would put him out and that couldn't be for at least another hour.

When Dean guessed the apartment was only a step better than the hotels he and Sam grew up in, he was being too generous. The tenement, and really even that was being kind, was roach and rat heaven. There were certainly several drug dealers living in the building and, if the furtive looks from the men scurrying away looking a little drained and very anonymous, a prostitute or two as well. Sam's place was on the second floor, which was fine with Dean because despite his night's rest, he was feeling a little wan. The cause was unknown, but he did not have time to worry about his own health. The goal of the moment was to get Sam inside, grab a few things for a short and unplanned roadtrip, and get to the shop a few miles away where Sammy had a date (which he also did not know about).

As Sam stumbled to his bathroom to shower and get ready for the day, Dean found a bag and threw a few clothing items in it. Anything else they needed, they could buy on the road. The trouble with using his own credit card, of course, was that he could be tracked. John might not be one to hit the panic button so readily, but the second Mary could not locate him she would be on their trail. That meant they needed cash. Therefore, a stop at an ATM was on the schedule as well.

Just as Sam wandered back into the main room, his jeans on but not fastened, the door to the apartment swung open. Dean stared in horror and amazement as a thin, pretty blond with short hair and dark eyes wearing tight jeans, low boots and a tailored leather jacket stepped into the Sam's place.

"Baby, where have you been?" she asked, walking directly to Sam and embracing him.

Dean shook his head and gaped as his brother started to introduce them.

"Hey, um, sweetie, this is my brother…," Sam began but Dean cut him off.

"Really?" Dean scoffed. "Friggin' Meg, dude? Again? Crap, this keeps getting better."

The face of the demon's first victim, or at least the first he and Sam ever met, were burned into Dean's memory. While he was more familiar and only slightly less antagonized with her latest guise of the shorter, spunkier, not quite as homicidal, dark-haired girl from Sheboygan whose bones the hell bitch jumped, Dean still didn't like or trust her—especially at this stage of their relationship. Dean could handle the darker haired better. She had, well, not mellowed, but she was useful. This blond version was the one that kidnapped his father, she was the one that tried to lure Sam away from him; this was the body that slit throats of Pastor Jim Murphy and Caleb. Dean clenched his jaw as he tried to arrange his face into something that didn't scream 'I'm going to kill you bitch.'

"Yeah, this is my, um, friend Meg…" Sam started. "I told you… Did I tell you her name?"

"Yeah, Meg Masters, from Massachusetts, right?" Dean offered.

"Yeah," his brother gaped. "I don't remember going into much detail."

"Uh… you didn't beyond a name really," Dean shook his head and stared at the demon. "So this is your new girlfriend? Naturally. You and the bad chicks, Sammy. Huh. And people pegged me as the sociopath."

"I'm sorry," Sam blinked hard and looked a little slow and lost on the conversation. "What?"

"Nothing," Dean shook his head then covered for his loose lips. "Head injury, here. Rambling words. You know me, all salad brains when it approaches medication time. Hey, speaking of which, could you go get me some water, Sammy? Time for my happy pills and you should really dress unless you want to start competing with the love doctor who lives downstairs."

Sam nodded and snorted a half laugh. Dean couldn't tell if he understood or was finding it funny due to his roofie kicking in. Whatever the case, he moved off toward the kitchen as Dean gave him a sketchy "OK" signal with his fingers before turning a cold smile at Meg. He could have kicked himself for not seeing this possibility. Sam and Meg met originally on the road heading to Indiana, but she caught up with Sam again in Chicago a few months later—actually lured the Winchester's there for a case. Dean was not prepared to deal with Shadow Demons at that moment and hoped she wasn't at that stage of her plan.

He felt stupid for not doing more research on her. Dean thought when she was registered as accepting work study at her college that meant she hadn't yet disappeared from her school so she wasn't possessed. Obviously, that was an over-estimation; it was also a great stroke of luck for him. He felt bad for the girl trapped inside, but he would deal with that problem later. As long as she didn't get thrown off a building, the body shouldn't be too badly damaged. And, if his plan worked, he could maybe get to her before the demon did. Dean shook his head, feeling it spin with this latest round of mitigation needed. He was going to have to start making notes of all the things needing correcting in this timeline.

"Have we met before?" Meg asked Dean, her interest sharp in both her tone and her eyes. "I mean, I know who you are. Who doesn't? You just not real popular in my neck of the woods and you seem very certain that you know me."

"I just have that effect on people," Dean said. "It's my charm."

She cocked her head to the side and blinked in surprise. Whatever she was expecting from him, she wasn't getting it. She also wasn't getting Sam, he decided. She kept her face in a sweet expression. Dean, however, wasn't fooled.

"I know you were hurt and head injuries make people act… kind of funny," she said carefully, "sorry if I seem a little… weirded out. From what Sam's told me, I just didn't think you'd be… around at all. It's kind of like… seeing the dead rise, I guess. Seeing you standing there just really surprised me. Scared me, a little."

_No, what should scare you is my memory. I remember just enough Latin to be very dangerous to you._

"No reason to fear me," Dean said easily. "Just letting my little brother play babysitter for the morning. I've got a few appointments in town and need someone to be there with me. Sammy's volunteered."

She appeared lost and took a step back from him. Her eyes trailed warily to where Sam could be seen outside talking on the phone. Her body shook slightly with fear.

"That's nice," she said. "Surprising, but nice. I mean, he hasn't mentioned you all summer. I guess you can see why I thought you were still… hurt."

"Nope," Dean shook his head. "Never better."

For the single blink of an eye, the thin smile on her face flashed to a serpentine sneer. Hate flashed in her eyes hot and burning. The orbs might not be black, but the intensity behind them was. He was reminded yet again that she was a minion of Lucifer. She was part of the plan to drive a wedge between the Winchester's, to find Sam's weaknesses and expoit Dean's. She might have helped them in the past, but this Meg was not yet on the path of helping her enemy screw another common enemy. This one was still in it for the big prize fight. Dean chuckled, feeling superior knowing her secret, and looked back at her while fighting the urge to sing out a few painful Latin phrases and send her on her way again.

"So, what are your big plans for the afternoon once your appointments are done?" she asked casually.

Dean shrugged.

"I don't know," he said. "Thought I'd take him out, get him drunk and tattooed—you know, for fun. I'd ask you to join us, but I'm pretty sure you'd hate it."

"I've got no issues with a little ink," she said coyly. "I just think you might want to be careful if you think that hazing kind of crap isn't going to wear thin pretty quick. Do you want him to get pissed at you?"

Dean smirked.

"I'm sorry," she said. "That must have sounded bitchy. Look, sorry I gave you the stink eye there when you first came in. I'm a Boston fan, okay. Your name is dirt in the Red Sox nation, buddy. The World Series and all. It's like religion with us and you stole it. You're like the Anti-Christ for us."

"Yeah, we both know that's the wrong team for me, but whatever," Dean shook his head.

Leaving Meg behind did not take much effort, although Dean was concerned she would follow them. He was not in possession of a mojo bag and didn't have the time to make one or detour to someone reputable to buy one. They would have to settle for simple caution and get out of Dodge quickly. Dean's plan did involve leaving Chicago, but he had planned to at least see John one last time before they left. Now, that wasn't looking possible.

While he left Sam to their morning appointment—having talked him into getting some coffee to wake him up (then dropping two more crushed Vicodin into the cup when he wasn't looking)—Dean called John. He said he and Sam got a late start and would not be meeting him for lunch. The man sounded disappointed but understanding. It bothered Dean, knowing that his lie to the man went unnoticed and unsuspected. He trusted Dean and was about to be betrayed by him, but for a good reason. The best reason: To save their family.

Dean wondered what that might cost him. He hoped, in time, John would forgive him. He did not want the man to understand. No, that would mean disclosing all the darkness that prowled around them, and he could not do that to this John. His own father had thrown that door open wide for Dean when he was barely five years old and it killed some part of him. He would spare this John that sort of wound. The price for happiness for this man would be ignorance.

"Your princess is ready," MacArthur Reedy said, stepping from his back room.

Dean walked to the chair in the back and surveyed the tattoo. It was swollen and bleeding still, but it was drawn perfectly. The permanent protection was etched for eternity into Sam's skin. Again, the kid would be pissed when he woke up, but the anger didn't matter to Dean. Again, if he had to lose a little trust or kindness from Sam, it was a small price.

Not that he was worried about either at the moment. Reedy's price increased for Sam's tattoo because he was unconscious and unable to consent. Dean gladly forked over an extra 200 for that and tossed in an additional 50 when Reedy help dump Sam into the passenger seat of their rented 2005 Mustang GT. It was hardly a muscle car, but Dean needed something with some power but no so flashy it stood out. The rental place had European sports cars and corvettes, but the GT had a trunk and Dean liked having a place to stash things if the need presented itself. Plus, the mileage was only slightly better than the Impala so budgeting their cash outlay for gas would be easy to calculate.

So, with Sam happily snoozing against the window in the passenger seat, his long legs crumbled against the dashboard, Dean pointed the car west toward Milwaukee and the last known location of the vessel of the only creature Dean was certain could help him.

The roadtrip was boring. He had no tapes, the radio stations weren't playing anything but Top 40 crap and Sam snored so loudly it wouldn't matter what was on the radio. Dean felt himself grow irritable quickly. The throbbing in his head returned and he was again waiting to see if there was a pattern in the pain and his lightheaded feelings. Being in another wreck would certain get him put into Mary Winchester's protective custody, and there was no way that would allow him to save his brother and family from the tidal wave of apocalyptic crap heading their way.

The drive was short, compared to the many other long stretches Dean had taken over the years. It just lacked any sense of fun to him. Sure, he and Sam would sometimes spell each other at the wheel so they could sleep, but usually only when they were sick of each other's company. The naps were a way to keep from bickering or killing each other. Sam's current coma, however, was coming on the heels of Dean just starting to know him. His sleeping beauty act was leaving Dean alone and feeling a bit lonely. He didn't have his brother. He didn't have his tunes. He didn't even have his Baby to keep him company. All in all, this roadtrip sucked ass.

Things did not improve when Dean arrived at the Piedmont Memorial Rehabilitation Center. The facility was for those in various stages or recovery. Those on the first floor were ambulatory and mostly there on a day basis for therapy. The upper floors were for more serious cases. Dean, without any of his fake IDs, was forced to use his actual name and gain entrance to the room and patient of interest. Once inside, he was greeted by a still form in a bed with sheets as pale and thin as the skin stretched tightly over the man's bones.

"Cas, man, are you in there?" Dean asked, looking into the emaciated face of Jimmy Novak.

He touched the man's forehead and felt it's cool, waxy texture. He was alive, if the beeping of the machines around him could be trust, but he did not seem to be home. A large scar on the middle of his forehead shown brightly and angrily on the pale skin. It was practically in the shape of a cross, Dean noted with interest. Which was odd because Cass was capable of healing himself as far as Dean knew. He certainly had no trouble healing Dean when he needed to do so. After all, the guy resurrected him once.

"Is that what happened?" Dean asked the unmoving form. "Did you heal me and it drained your mojo? Cas, you gotta snap out of this… or back into this. Whatever. Look, something screwy is going on here and you're the only one I can trust to help me put it right. I don't know what happened, but I'm not exactly the guy who was here before and I need you to explain that to me. I also need your help. It's Sam. Now, I know what you've been doing, watching over me and all, but now we gotta look out for him and I need your help, man."

Dean waited by the bed. He looked docilely around the room, hopeful for a rush of wings or a glowing light, something to show him the angel was still around, but nothing happened. He sat that way for a long time, staring down at the lifeless face. His relationship with the angel was a complicated one. He cared about Cas. Okay, if pushed he would admit he loved him like a brother—nearly as much as his Sam and probably about as much as the Sam he left drooling on the passenger seat in the parking lot. They were fellow warriors, soldiers in their fathers' war and forced to battle things beyond their comprehension. They had very little and held tight to those things they felt had value, and that included each other. Cas pulled him out of Hell. His wing man then defied Heaven and fell from grace to join forces with Dean, feeling his goal was more righteous than the corruption of Heaven. They helped derail the Apocalypse together and (for better or worse, half-assed or strategically) Cas saved Sam from Hell as well. He also broke his brother and nearly killed him. At one time, Dean tried (and failed) to save Cas from himself and the Leviathans. Then, somehow, he got through to the cuckoo angel and got Castiel Interrupted to help him make a final play for Dick Roman. They were cast into Purgatory together and fought, again like brothers in a trench, to keep each other alive.

There was a lot of water under and over the bridge the connected the two. Some of it dirty. A lot of it dangerous, but it kept them connected. Dean knew of no one else in the universe who knew him as completely as Cas. In fact, there were times when the nerdy angel seemed to know him better than Sam did and better than Dean knew himself. So seeing him in the bed, or at least his vessel, so lifeless and unreachable hurt.

Dean had lost a lot in his life—nearly everything except Cas and Sam—and here in this world, it was like he didn't even have them. Not the two who he knew. He was reminded of Missouri Mosley's words: You have no friends here.

_No kidding lady. Even the ones I do have aren't really mine._

And how could they be? They hadn't lived the life that made them who they were to Dean. They hadn't survived and struggled and fought and lost and won along his side as his Sam and his Cas did. The same with his parents. They were not the people he knew because they lead normal lives. They were regular people, the ones who didn't charge after ghosts and monsters. They were not the anonymous heroes who saved the world a lot.

They were normal. They were regular people, the types who had jobs and mortgages and pension plans. They paid their bills and bitched about neighbors and politicians. They got married, had kids, and divorced. They were… like the victims Dean spent his whole life trying to save.

What he needed, he knew, was someone who didn't have it so easy. Someone who knew what went growl and chomp in the night.

With his brother ignorant and drugged to the gills and his wingman flown the coop, Dean needed to find himself a knowledgeable partner.

In short, he needed to find another hunter.

* * *

**A/N:** Again, sorry for the short chapter, but it made more sense to end it here. More to come. Thanks for all the reviews and for the follows!


	11. Chapter 11

Title: The Price of Happiness (Chapter 11)

Notes: UPDATED TO FIX A FORMATTING ISSUE...

To the anonymous guest reviewer who begged today for an update, here you go. Your desperation worried me. ;)

Also, thanks again to all of you who have purchased my novel. I give you my solemn promise that I will finish "The Price of Happiness" while I work out the kinks in my second novel. I will never leave fanfic readers hanging in the lurch for a story finale. You all have been too kind and proven yourselves (yet again) as astute readers who love a good story. You adore the characters from the shows you love, but you also have given new characters in other stories unrelated to the TV shows a chance and that speaks volumes about you as readers and true lovers of the written word. I thank you, most sincerely.

Now, let's get back to our hot, little, demon hunting duo… I mean, these valiant and heroic men with a righteous purpose…

* * *

Using basic math, the Dean's decision appeared to be a no brainer: 370 miles versus 500 miles. A few hours difference—six hours versus eight. Of course, normally, long drives relaxed Dean. He was at home on the road. Or he would be if he was behind the wheel in Baby. If the guy sitting (okay, well, sleeping and drooling a bit) next to him was his hunting partner. If they weren't trying to keep a step ahead of two demons.

Yes, two, he reminded himself as he committed to his destination. One was trying to fulfill a prophesy so his master might rise. The other was apparently sleeping with Sam. Dean glanced at his unconscious sort-of-sibling and rolled his eyes.

_You and the black-eyed bitches_, Dean scoffed. _You take that bad boy concept to a whole new level, Sammy. _

One demon to watch and fend off was bad enough. Yellow Eyes was hard enough to kill the first time. Dean recalled intimately the moment he fired the bullet that pierced the fiend's heart. It was his emotion he recalled mostly: shock more than elation. The four-year-old scared kid in him wanted to cry and see his mother again. The then 27-year-old hunter had wanted the bastard to burn and feel the pain and fear Mary Winchester did in her final moments, but there was no reveling in the hell bitch's death. There was some helpless dope of a janitor trapped inside his own body who was suffering while he was ridden by evil. The quick death—more than 20 years overdue—was fitting in the grand scheme.

Now, Dean had to do it again and he didn't know what the techno-colored-eyed bastard would look like this time. He was a cop in Chicago the day before, but they jumped bodies at will so Azazel might be anyone now. That's what made this hunt tricky. Fortunately, Dean held the element of surprise. He knew Azazel's ultimate plans—knew Meg's motivation to some extent, too. That gave him the chance to plot strategy rather than just react, which was why he did not just go with his gut instinct as he and Sam left Milwaukee. There were two hunters he trusted in the vicinity, and he had to concern his choices carefully.

Pastor Jim Murphy was a man of god who wielded a machete better than a Hollywood psychopath. He seemed to know every exorcism ritual ever written down and feared nothing—not his own death or the monsters who could likely bring it. He was wise and patient—the only man John Winchester never turned sour against him for even a moment. Dean and the Pastor did not see eye to eye on a lot of things. He was always trying to heal Dean from his inner turmoil by telling him things like the bad things that happened weren't his fault and he could find balance in his life outside of his devotion to his brother and hunting. Basically, Dean thought the man was deluded and crazy-likeable as can be, but still a loon of the first order.

Murphy was a detailed hunter, someone who could question a witness and get the entire story without raising any suspicions. He could look into the face of evil and still find an uplifting lesson. He could forgive the monsters and the spirits for what they had become, not blaming them for things beyond their control. He was strong, much stronger than his wiry frame let on, and fearless to a fault.

He was also closer.

Blue Earth, Minnesota, was just a few hours away and the man had a sanctuary that was well-stocked and well-armed. He would also be the one most willing and able to accept Dean's story without thinking him crazy or demanding proof. Murphy, Dean knew from the lessons his father taught him, was the instinctual and wise choice given their predicament.

Of course, Dean's was running this show.

Bobby Singer, he determined after considering their options thoroughly, was his answer.

Bobby was an excellent hunter with two decades of experience. He was a brilliant researcher and someone who never turned down anyone who was in trouble, the kind of trouble that defied explanation and needed the ragtag specialists who roamed the nation's back roads stomping out evil wherever it lurked, and Dean trusted him with his life. More than that, he knew he could trust him with Sam's life.

Bobby was also a sentimental choice, Dean knew, because he missed his surrogate father so desperately that it still made him hurt sometimes. Sending Bobby's soul packing by burning the man's flask was one of the hardest things Dean ever had to do. It was the right thing, but that didn't make it easy. John might have loved Dean as his son, but Bobby cared for Dean like he was.

Arriving at Singer's Salvage just as the autumn evening began to fall, Dean smiled. The old, junk cars scattered across the yard, the hubcaps nailed to the paint-starved clapboard house and the overall air of abandonment filled the area. It was a tetanus shot playground, and Dean didn't know of any place he felt safer or more at home. He parked the car in the front and looked over at Sam, who was still out of it following a little more force-feeding of opiates during a brief stop during their drive. The kid barely opened his eyes long enough for Dean to pour a drug-laced Yoohoo down his throat. He mumbled a few things Dean did not understand and slumped back in his seat. Little brother was a cheap date, he smirked.

Now, in the yard, Sam did not stir as Dean prepared to exit the car. He would be fine where he was for a little while as Dean explained the situation to Bobby. However, before he was able to approach the house, his phone rang. He looked at it and spied his father's number. Dean nodded, he had been expecting this call.

"Hey Dad," he answered casually, sighing gratefully as he reassured himself he had turned off the GPS in the phone once they left Milwaukee.

"Dean, where the hell are you?" John asked. The urgency in his voice was tight like piano wire.

"I, uh, went to see Jimmy," Dean replied evasively.

"I know, but you're not there now because I just spoke to the nurse's desk," John snarled. "So tell me where you are, now!"

"Sammy and I decided to take a little road trip," Dean replied. "Everything's fine."

"Things are very far from fine," John insisted. "Put your brother on the phone."

"Uh, no can do," Dean replied, looking to his side to seen Sam slumped against the passenger door.

"Why not?" John asked. "Is he with you or not?"

"Oh, he's here," Dean said. "He just can't come to the phone. He's… um… sleeping."

"Sleeping?" John demanded. "It's a little early to be sleeping. What's going on, Dean? Where are you?"

"We've gone to see an old friend," Dean explained. "I get that you're mad and were worried, but there's no need. We're fine. This sort of came up all of a sudden. Just calm down and…."

"Calm down?" John barked, sounding a lot more like his old man. "Dean, you get to the nearest hotel and book a room, then you call me and tell me where it is exactly. I am coming to get you. You need your medication. Obviously, you're not well. Something's gone wrong, and it's starting to affect you."

"It's not," Dean replied. "I'm not out of medication; I'm not even on medication. I actually haven't been since I got back to Lawrence I guess, and I haven't had any problems so you don't need to worry."

The last bit was a lie, but Dean didn't see any reason to tell John about the disorientation in his head or the stabbing pains and consciousness issues he was having. Those would just play into his argument that there was something. This problem, Dean was certain, was supernatural not medical. Telling him demons were on the loose and someone was working heavy duty dark magic against Dean would just convince John that Dean had lost his mind.

"You losing your mind and running off like this is a problem," John said. "Son, listen to me, you've had a head injury. You've had memory loss from it, and now this. This is just another… symptom. Now, I want to help you. Just tell me where you are. Please, Dean. Just tell me."

"You're gonna have to trust me on this," Dean answered, the knot in his chest twisting tightly as he heard the panic in the man's voice. "I'll explain later if I can. If you have to tell Mom about this, tell her not to worry. I'm perfectly fine and will be home… soon."

"No, wait, Dean…," he protested, but Dean disconnected then turned the phone off.

He stared at the phone and swallowed hard. He did not know how long "soon" actually was. If he and Bobby took off on this hunt now, it could be days, weeks or maybe even years before it was over. But it was going to be over. Dean swore that to himself over and over in the car as he drove to the salvage yard. He was going to end this, cleanly and effectively, once and for all. No more screwed pooches. No more loose ends. No more almosts. This crappy saga where angels and demons dicked with his family and everyone else on the planet was considered collateral damage was going to stop.

He patted Sam briefly on the shoulder—the kid remained oblivious—then climbed the steps to the dilapidated house. He knocked on the door and waited several moments before hearing feet scuff the floor inside. A moment later, the door jerked open.

A gnarled and grizzled face glared back at him. The beard was a little unkempt, much like the wings of hair peeking out from under the grimy trucker's cap. He wore a stained flannel shirt, grease scarred work vest and a pair of jeans that looked grubby enough to stand up on their own. The man's complexion was ruddy. His eyes slightly yellowed around the edges from too many years of drinking bad whisky. There was an ugly scar along his neck, like someone had tried to slit his throat with a rusty knife, and a matching mark that practically crossed out his eye. He looked back at Dean with a nasty snarl that would fit perfectly on a rabid was a terrifyingly dirty and unwelcoming sight.

Dean smiled thinking that while the old hunter looked a little different to him, that he hadn't seen anything quite so beautiful in a very long time.

"Bobby Singer," Dean said, fighting to keep the smile off his face.

"Maybe," he growled.

"I'm…," Dean paused. "I think I need your help."

"With what?" he asked flatly.

"It's a little complicated, and you're the only one who can help," Dean replied. He saw the hesitation in the man's hard-bitten eyes and the distrust, and he wanted to kiss him, well, not exactly, but a hearty hug was certainly not off the table of wants. "I can pay you."

To prove it, Dean pulled a thick money clip from his pocket and flashed it before the man's eyes.

"Who do I have to kill?" Bobby asked mildly and sounding open to the possibility.

"It's more of a what than a who—right up your alley, actually," Dean said, seeing the sudden flicker of understanding in the man's eyes. "Now, if you're willing to hear me out, I'd like to come in and talk to you, but first, I'd appreciate it if you'd uncock that sawed off shotgun you have pointed at me behind the door. I'd hate to have a our little business transaction interrupted by that arthritic cramp in your left hand seizing on the trigger."

That got him.

Bobby opened the door a bit wider, pointed his weapon to the floor and let Dean enter.

"Thanks," Dean said, stepping into the library and taking a lungful of the dusty, musty, slightly burned, moldy and whisky soaked aroma of the room.

There were still a thousand books piled all over the room, but there was also an entire wall holding a rack of weapons (blades, guns and arrows). It looked like a crazed survivalists trophy room. This, despite the differences, was home.

"Love what you've done with the place," Dean remarked staring at the dangerous wall ornaments with interest.

"Gives Buckingham Palace a run for its money at the height of tourist season," Bobby said. "Now, tell me, what the hell you want."

"Okay," Dean nodded and turned to face the man. Even in this reality, Bobby was a man of little patience. "My name's Dean…"

"Winchester," Bobby finished. "Son, I'm a little drunk, not a lot stupid."

Dean grinned and looked back at him, unable to fight the smile on his lips. Bobby glared at him.

"Sorry," Dean nodded. "I just forgot how much I miss that. Expected an '_idgit'_ tagged there on the end, but whatever…"

"I'll tag you with a foot up your ass in a second if you don't get to the point of this little meet and greet," Bobby sneered. "Tell me what the golden boy of Major League Baseball wants with a broke down no one of a junk man in South Dakota?"

"From a junk man, nothing," Dean replied confidently. "From the best damn demon, monster and ghost hunter of his generation on the other hand: Help. Seriously, I need your help, Bobby. I don't know what's happened or why, but I need help figuring it out and, failing that, you have to help me kill a demon, like in the next few days if we can find where the son of a bitch is."

"Kill a demon?" Bobby repeated. "Boy that's…"

"I know," Dean cut him off with frustration. "Nine kinds of crazy."

"I was gonna say it's fucking suicide, but if you want to be an optimist…," the old hunter shrugged and tipped his flask.

"Well, I've got the how figured out… mostly, so, yeah, I'm feeling a little optimism," Dean shrugged. "It's the where and when that need some work."

"You're serious," he stated stunned. "Kill a demon?"

"You bet," Dean nodded. "I'd kill 'em all if I could, but the first one on my list is that yellow-eyed bitch that goes by the name Azazel. Bobby, we have to stop him before he gets to my brother and all hell breaks loose—literally."

* * *

Half an hour later, Dean finished his abbreviated story. Bobby stared at him throughout, taking occasional pulls on his flask, and saying nothing. His expression was dark and unreadable, but he was listening. As he finished, Dean looked at him hopefully. The face he got in return was not encouraging.

"I know it sounds like a double scoop of crazy with some whackjob sprinkles on top, but that doesn't make it untrue," Dean said. "I know what I'm talking about, and you're the only one I can trust to help."

"You want me to believe that you, Mr. Sports Illustrated who dates the swimsuit edition models, is a hunter in his off hours between games?" Bobby asked.

"No, I want you to believe that this life, the one that you know, isn't real," Dean said. "I mean, it is real, but it's not right or not the life that existed a week ago."

"Is that so?" Bobby remarked doubtfully. "And the one that did exist, what am I in that one? Hugh Hefner's stunt double?"

"No, you're actually dead there," Dean replied, the sadness in his voice evident through the deep rasp on his words. "But I'm not looking to change things back. I don't see any reason to end this existence. I've been doing some thinking and life appears so far to be a hell of a lot better here and now that it was before. So, I think… I think this is the one that we should keep, but that can't happen unless we save Sam."

"Your brother who's passed out in the car and has demon blood in him?" Bobby asked.

Dean nodded and continued with his pitch.

"Look, right now, it's 2005, and that means there's still time to stop all of it," he said. "Where I come from, it's 2013, you were murdered the year before last and there's been a load of crap rained down on us that just doesn't seem to stop so my brother and I are trying to close the gates of hell forever."

The old hunter scoffed and folded his arms.

"Ambitious," Bobby nodded.

"You have no idea," Dean shook his head. "If we set things right, we can do that now and none of what happened… will. I don't know if Sam can succeed through these trials back where I'm from, but I'm thinking that if I can avoid the whole apocalypse altogether this time then maybe he won't have to do it at all. You and I can go get the demon tablet with the gate information—I know exactly where it is right now. I also know the guy who can translate it. We figure out what the other two trials are and we can slam the door on Hell ourselves. We can save nearly everybody, Bobby. I'm talking like thousands of people and keep the rest of those black-eyed bitches from ever getting out."

"You and me?" he repeated, skepticism dripping from his words. "You gonna stomp 'em with your cleats or maybe just beat 'em with your Louisville Slugger?"

"I'm a hunter, okay?" Dean said heatedly. "I know here I'm a 26 year old baseball player who makes a crap load of money and dates hot chicks—at least, my mother seems to think I do because I haven't had the pleasure yet. Trust me, we do this, and that is the top 10 things on my list to do next. But, just between you and me, Baseball Guy is not who I really am. I am a 34-year-old hunter whose been to Heaven, Hell and Purgatory—and I don't recommend any of them. You think I'm making this up? Go ahead. Ask me anything about hunting. I'll pass whatever test you've got. I've killed vampires, shape shifters, skinwalkers, wendigos, and every kind of pissed off spirit you can think of. I've killed demons. Hell, I've killed a friggin' angel!"

"An angel?" Bobby looked at him doubtfully.

"They're dicks with wings generally, and trust me, Zachariah had it coming," Dean seethed. "I know this sounds crazy, but how else would I know to find you? I know you, Bobby. Your name is Robert Steven Singer and where I come from, you practically raised me. My father was a hunter, and you helped him learn about hunting after my mother was killed by Azazel in 1983. My brother and I spent a lot of time in this house learning from you. We became hunters, and we stopped a lot of crap. Cause a fair amount too as it turns out, but I know how to avoid a lot of that this time around so let's not waste any more time, okay?"

"Son, you are crazy," Bobby noted. "That car wreck turned your melon into tapioca."

"Maybe, but you know that every evil creature I just mentioned exists," Dean offered. "I know they do like I know that you kill them. So ask yourself this: What if I'm telling the truth? You just gonna ignore what I told you about the tidal wave of bad about to hit? Trust me, Bobby. I know you. I know what sort of crap whisky you drink, why you like your meatloaf overcooked, that you watch a Spanish soap opera. I know about Rufus Turner and what happened to your wife Karen. I know about Harvelle's Roadhouse and what Pastor Jim Murphy keeps in the basement of his church. I know you recently met a hunter named Garth—screwy guy, reminds me a bit of a squirrel, acts like he was dropped on his head a few times as a child and claims he killed the friggin' tooth fairy. I know you've got more than a few bodies buried in your back yard and most of them aren't human. I also know there is a secret compartment behind that rosette on your mantel, that the flask on the shelf to your right has holy water and the one on the left whisky. Tell me I'm wrong."

The old hunter took a step back and reached cautiously toward the shotgun resting on his desk, but did not pick it up as Dean looked back at him with a solemn expression, pleading with his eyes for the man to believe him.

"How in the hell…?" Bobby gaped. "You some kind of psychic boy?"

"No, that's my brother and that is a problem," Dean replied. "Believe me, Bobby. I know you. Now, you need to trust me."

* * *

Another hour of after answering dozens of questions passed before Dean felt he was getting anywhere. After accepting a shot from Bobby's newly opened bottle, Dean felt like he was going to go hoarse. He had explained and detailed everything he knew about his actual past and his current present. Bobby sat at his desk staring back at him with narrow eyes and pursed lips.

"There's one thing I don't get," he said.

"Just one?" Dean shrugged. "This is crazy on a cracker, but if you're only going to the 'how come' room on one part, shoot."

The grizzled hunter scowled and eyed his guest sharply. Dean winced slightly under the blazing gaze then shrugged.

"You sold your soul to save your brother," Bobby said aggressively. "Are you stupid?"

"We've had this conversation," Dean groaned. "I'll tell you now what I told you then: I couldn't let him die. I still won't."

"You know that's how this whole Apocalypse thing started, right?" Bobby maintained. "The war of the worlds between heaven and hell needs you and your brother to make bad decisions to kick it off, if I'm hearing you right. "

"Nutshell," Dean nodded.

"So why save him?" Bobby asked.

"What?" Dean snapped.

"Just let him get voted off the island, kid," Bobby advised. "If you know that he'll die because of this demon's plan and that he's going to heaven when he dies the first time, why save him at all? Let him go. End of story. You say he's a snot-nosed college kid who helps poor people at a free clinic. Stupid, yeah, but not evil. So, if he didn't hawk his soul for anything, then he's not taking a trip downstairs when it's time to say Goodnight Sweet Prince. Don't you see, it would just be easier to let him die so he can get dragged into the light? Worst thing that happens to him after that is his ass has wait in line at the Pearly Gates."

Dean shook his head adamantly. That was not an option and it was not a better plan.

"Heaven's not like that," Dean objected. "It's… fake and corrupt and… It's like… New Jersey only slightly more shady dickhead run the place."

"Well, it ain't Hell and it ain't here, so it sounds like an improvement to me," Bobby argued. "Look, Winchester, you don't like the garden party their throwing in the attic, fine. You ever ask your brother, the one you say you saved, if he liked it?" Dean looked back at him hard and aggressively. "Or did you just decide that because you didn't like it neither did he? See, you strike me as the type who figure you know best—got that compulsive fixer attitude about you, carrying the weight of the world, trying to right the wrongs to give yourself a reason to go on. How'm I doin' so far?"

Dean glared back at him then merely shrugged. The man was good. Even when he didn't actually know the boys, Bobby still knew them. The old man smiled in a nasty but triumphant manner as Dean glowered at him.

"So simplest solution is to let this little demon plan play out for now, and you just don't make the deal once your brother takes a dirt nap," Bobby counseled. "He dies, you grieve, and you move on with your life—a little sadder maybe but knowing you prevented the end of the damn world. Think of what you're saving him from—and nine kinds of crazy torture for being up close and personal with Satan himself."

Dean shook his head vigorously, feeling the nausea sweep over him as he did. The room was growing hot and his vision was blurry around the edges again. He thought about blaming it on the whisky, but the sensation was too similar to what happened at his apartment the night before. Bobby continued to argue, oblivious to Dean's distress.

"I can see you want to argue with me," he said. "I hear you. He's your family and you'll miss him, but think of all the lives you save and he saves by making this noble sacrifice. Here's a better plan: I'll take care of this Jake kid, the one you said shivs your brother and goes on to open that Devil's Gate. I'll take him out the moment he steps foot in that cemetery in Wyoming. Then I'll put down that Yellow-Eyed SOB, too."

"What about me?" Dean asked, gripping the edge of the desk, focusing all of his energy on staying alert and upright.

"Go home and rest up because you look like hammered crap," Bobby scoffed. "You're not a hunter here, Winchester. You're a candy-assed, pretty boy ballplayer. When the time comes, go comfort your mother. Leave this to me. I'll end this thing and keep you out of all of it."

Dean shook his head, unwilling to abdicate any role in the end of Yellow Eyes and the final salvation for his family. It was his fault Sammy got dosed with bitch blood in this life because his stupid flying antics left the kid home with a worthless babysitter on the night Azazel came a-calling.

"Listen, you got one job here, Winchester," Bobby ordered. "Don't make the same mistakes as you did before by trying to save your brother."

"No," Dean shouted. "Letting Sammy die is not an option, Bobby. He gets to live a long, normal life."

"Son, he has lived a normal life—one a hell of a lot longer than anyone else I know ever who caught the attention of a demon," Bobby spat angrily. "Your brother grew up in a house with a backyard and friends to play. He went to school and had a pain in the ass jock older brother. He probably banged his prom date and did a naked keg stand at college. That's more than a lot of people get. What's so special about him that he should more if he's the one who pushes you to the limit to start this whole thing?"

Dean paused. There was that. Maybe dying was the solution—not Sam, but Dean himself. If he died, without making a deal, he wouldn't go to Hell and then couldn't break the seal so game over for the Apocalypse… Except John was still there. He was also a viable vessel for Michael. Killing John certainly wasn't an option. Dean was the reason his father was dead in his actual life; he wasn't going to carry that burden in this world, too.

Of course, Dean dying left Sam on earth unprotected, and if Dean wasn't there to stop him from going dark side, the whole thing could still happen. Letting Sam rest in peace was… simpler, but problematic. What if the angels stepped in? What if they brought the kid back anyway as they wanted the whole big celebrity death match between the archangels to happen? They might do the same to Dean as well. No, the cleanest, surest solution was to kill Azazel before his demon mojo turned on Sam's visions or started his 'special kids' on their dark road. It had to happen before Yellow Eyes did his survivor contest in Cold Oak, before Dean was forced to watch his brother suffer then die in his arms. If Sam didn't die, then Dean wouldn't summon the crossroads demon. Dad wouldn't die either to save Dean. No deals meant no trips to the basement.

"You said your mother was a hunter?" Bobby asked, dragging Dean's attention back to the present. "She up and walked away without ever looking back? You say something is rotten in Denmark here? You think of asking her what she knows?"

"No," he shook his head. "She's out of it. I want her to stay that way. She never wanted a hunting life and when she was finally free she… Look, she deserves to be happy now, too."

"You think maybe she's still got her hand in?" Bobby asked, reading Dean's thoughts despite the headshake he was giving the old hunter. "You that deluded or that dumb?"

Dean was worried. According to his parents, he was in a coma and probably should have died of his injuries in July. Only he was here now. Something pulled him to this time and place. He was past wondering if it had anything to do with the crappy Vermont March weather and was thinking more along the lines of Bobby. But he didn't want to believe it. Mary was a hunter. She knew not to play with dark things that could come back to bite you and often did. Sure, she made a deal to save John, but had she done it again to save Dean?

"As far as I know, there's no deals here now," Dean assured him. "Besides, my mother wouldn't make one."

"Not even to save her first-born?" Bobby asked "Kid, the whole nation's watched you for the last couple years become the darling American hero; we've all seen your parents at the game. Your mom? She loves her boy, got that Momma Bear look in her eye—saw it glaring from her over the summer in news coverage as she and your dad spoke to the press about your condition."

Dean continued to shake his head in adamant disagreement. Bobby scoffed then trudged to his computer. He typed, hunt and peck style, viciously on the old keyboard then spun the monitor around to reveal the ghastly twisted metal of what was once a car.

"Look at this," he said. "They pull you out of that deadly mess, son, yet somehow you're standing in my house talking to me like nothing happened. I'd say there's some sour-assed mojo going on, wouldn't you?"

Dean shook his head. It didn't make sense. If Mary made a deal, how the hell did he have memories of his other life if this one was real and she just made a deal? No, something else happened here. The only thing that made sense was that in his old life, the one he was pulled out of, someone else spit in the soup and messed with reality. Now, Dean was caught in-between, living in the now with his memories of then. Whatever it was, it was something with a colossal amount of power—archangel level… or stronger. Only, there were no archangels left (as far as he knew). So, finding something with that kind of juice certainly narrowed the field. The most powerful creature he ever met was a horseman with a fondness for cheap food, but Death was beyond this set up. This was a parlor trick compared to what the gaunt man could do. Besides, he wouldn't mess with the whole world just to do Dean a favor.

"I don't know what happened and I've decided that I don't care either," Dean insisted. "Obviously, it was something screwy that was happening back in the time and place I'm from, but whatever it is, I'm not here to undo it. I'm here to set this time right so none of that crap I know about has to happen in the first place. I also know there's always a price with these things. You always pay for this kind of thing and I've figured out what mine is. To have this life, the one where my family gets to live, I have to give up my life in the public. I can't be an overpaid Little Leaguer anymore . I'm cool with that. I'll gladly slip back into the shadows if you'll agree to help me run with the here and now so we can kill that yellow-eyed sonofabitch."

Bobby regarded him thoughtfully for several long, tense moments. He sighed and shook his head in a dissatisfied way.

"You claim you're a hunter and some heavy universe altering crap happens, but you don't care?" Bobby asked. "What the hell kind of hunter are you, boy? Just because your life got better don't give you the right to play god and leave things the way they are. Screw what it's gonna cost you to be happy. This is about what's natural and what ain't! If it ain't natural, it's a threat. We kill threats and we put things right. That's our job!"

"Bobby, I get that to a point, but it's not always that black and white," Dean disagreed. "Trust me, this world is better for everyone. It's not just my life that's better. Thousands of people won't die if we do this. My whole family is alive—including you."

The older hunter set back in his chair at that reminder. He glared at the kid, all worked up and anxious as he made his sales pitch.

"Where I come from, a bastard of a toothy monster killed you, and if you think for a second I am going to let someone do that again, you're crazier than you think I am," Dean insisted, his voice growing low and desperate as he spoke. "Look, you can't dial up the DeLoran and send me back to that crap future, and even if you could, you'd fail because I wouldn't let you. Think of it: If we do things my way, thousands, maybe more, will be saved just by not having the earthquakes and hurricanes that came with the apocalypse; a couple hundred fewer demons out there jumping the bones of innocent civilians and no friggin' leviathan's chewing their way through society to make us all hors d'oeuvres. Now, if you don't see the value in that, then I don't know what the hell kind of hunter you are!"

"Kid," he shook his head, taking a pull on his flask, "you had me convinced at the me not dying part."

Dean finally smiled. Bobby stood up from his chair and patted Dean affectionately on the shoulder.

"So what now?" Dean asked as Bobby approached his wall of weapons and began surveying them. "None of those will put down Azazel."

"You said you had a way," he remarked, taking down a wooden hammer shaped object. He then turned his attention to the rack of guns. "What is it? Better be foolproof, Dean."

Hearing his name, rather than the brusque "Winchester," from Bobby's lips was settling and gratifying. The guy might be acting a little cagey and a little distrusting, even for a paranoid SOB like Bobby, but it reassured Dean. Something was finally looking up and going his way in his plan.

"It is," Dean guaranteed excitedly. "It's Colt's gun." Bobby's head snapped around quickly with his eyes narrowed in suspicion and doubt. "Honest. It's real. I've seen it. Hell, I've held and it fired it. Killed Yellow Eyes with it actually. You then took the old girl apart right here in this room to see what made her tick, so to speak."

"Samuel Colt's fabled revolver is real?" he gaped.

"Do Wendigo's smell like burned fried chicken when you roast 'em?" Dean nodded and grinned.

Being back in the house and talking to Bobby felt good. He wasn't sure they parted well. The man was on the verge of going full-on vengeful and then they roasted his final remains in a fire, sending him who knows where. He was the last (Dean had hoped) in a long line of lost friends, and somehow he was the hardest despite that being the second time he "died" in front of Dean. While things were a little different here, a little dirtier, a little shabbier and a little more… armed, this was still Bobby. He was still one of the best hunters to ever live and now he was going to help kill the evil SOB who set Sam and Dean on their on their personal road to Hell. He walked across the room and stared fondly at the couch that had served as bed to he and Sam for so many years.

"A hunter named Daniel Elkins has it, has had it for years," Dean remarked. "Turns out, a temporarily deputized sheriff, named Winchester, used it to kill a Phoenix in a town called Sunrise in the 1840s. Elkin's great-something grandfather ran the local saloon and got the gun after that."

"Dan Elkins?" Bobby repeated. "Vampire specialist?"

"Yahtzee," Dean nodded, peering out the window to where Sam was supposed to be soundly sleeping in the car then scowled as he noted the passenger seat was empty. "He's in Colora…"

The blow to the back of Dean's head was silent and swift. He was out, face planted firmly in the couch he had been reminiscing about just moments ago, before his knees buckled.

* * *

**A/N**: Yeah, left you with a little cliffhanger. Just felt like the thing to do for a Thursday. More to come…


	12. Chapter 12

Title: The Price of Happiness (Chapter 12)

Notes: Home recovering from a minor surgery and wanted someone to benefit from my brief time off, so you get a new chapter. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

**oOoOoOo**

The first thing Dean noted was the smell.

It was wet, dank and old, moldy stench, like an open drain or dripping pipe or…

Dean levered an eye open and saw a horizontal world. It was in that moment that he felt the gritty and cold surface beneath his cheek and the sudden throbbing at the back of his head. The room, or maybe it was a cell, was dimly lit and cluttered with enough crap to make the producers of Hoarder's salivate.

He twisted his neck gingerly to the side, feeling the protests of his muscles and his vision. There were two stairways he could see. One to his left was a full flight of stairs ascending to an upper floor. The other, slightly off to his right on the far side of the darkened room was only a half flight. Bulkhead, the word wafted through his mind. That one was a way out of wherever he was.

It took him a moment of assessing his location and his aches to recall how he might have gotten to where he was.

_Bobby_.

"Damn it," Dean growled and winced as he then noted the numbness in his hands along with the paralysis in his arms and shoulders as he tried to lift himself from his prone position on the floor.

"Dean?" a hesitantly and groggy voice called from somewhere behind him.

"Sam?" Dean replied, his cheek still firmly attached to the floor. "You okay?"

"I feel like I got electrocuted," he said slowly. "And I'm a little worried I got… raped."

"What?" Dean snapped, whipping his head toward Sam's voice faster than was advisable.

"I don't know," his brother said in a rush. "I woke up, tied up and my pains are barely on."

This is so not happening. Dean gritted his teeth and rolled painfully on his side. He managed after several false starts and a lot of cursing to maneuver himself into a sitting/leaning position. His wrists, he noted, were tightly bound behind him. From the deep, raw feelings at the joints, he guessed zip ties were holding them firm. A quick glance at his ankles revealed precisely those restraints holding his feet together. There was an alarming throbbing in his ribs, along his jaw and in his shoulders, which he found impressive that he could feel considering the pains in his head made him suspect the bones of his skull were currently overlapping each other.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Dean asked, his voice a rough rasp from lack of use and his recent exertions to get into a better position.

"Uh, I needed to take a leak," Sam replied, scrunching his eyes tightly as he coaxed the memory forward. "I didn't know where you were, so I got out of the car and… I thought I heard something behind me and then I woke up here. Also, it feels like I got bitten by a snake. My neck burns on this side on two spots."

He lifted his chin and turned his head to the side. Dean squinted but saw nothing. Frustrated, he focused instead on prying his ankle apart. The beauty of zip ties were their quick and efficient means of binding things. Their down fall was precisely that, the quickness. They did not require any locking per se. They were just a small lip of strong plastic that lodged into the cogs on the strip. That made them easy to break if you knew what to do and were willing to endure the pain it would cause. Fortunately for Dean, the ones on his ankles were tight—the determination of his captor worked against restraint because the stronger the tension on the tie, the easier it was to break free. The plastic was already strained so Dean pushed his knees outward, pressing the soles of his shoes toward each other. After a moment of agony as the ties bit through his socks and into his skin, nearly sinking into the bone, the lip of plastic gave way to the pressure. The tie snapped free and skittered across the floor.

Dean groaned and he scrambled to his knees and walked on them over to Sam's resting place. He, too, was bound hand and foot with the ties. Dean peered closely as his brother's neck, worried about the bite but chuckled as he looked at it then the shimmied down nature of Sam's denim. The situation was not good, bordering on desperate if he wanted to be honest, but the sight and the explanation were almost comical.

"You weren't raped," Dean smirked. "You got tazed as you took a piss. Those marks are from the prongs that touched your skin. The guy left your drawers where they were—that is, unless you've been raped before and you have other sensations you're not telling me about."

"It's not funny, Dean!" Sam whispered harshly as he glared daggers at his brother. "Some mad man has us locked in his torture chamber and you think it's funny? How the hell did we get here anyway? Where is here?"

"Uh, if I say long story are you going to keep asking questions?" Dean wondered as he spun around to put his back close to his brothers. "While you think about that, do me a favor. Use your hands and pull the tab on this zip tie even tighter."

"Tighter?" Sam questioned. "You need it looser to slip out of it, Dean. You're the mechanical guru, remember?"

"Yeah, and the guru is telling you to pull and make these cuffs tighter," Dean snarled. "Do it!"

With a huff and a sigh, Sam fumbled for a few minutes, craning his head over his shoulder trying to locate and then grasp the cord. Once he found it, he gave it a vicious but brief tug that sent a sear of pain up Dean's arms. He hissed loudly as the jagged plastic teeth were swallowed by the restraining lip on the ties. With a serious amount of grunting—in no small measure from the strain it placed on his achy shoulders and chest—Dean clambered again to his knees then raised his arms as high has he could behind his back then quickly slammed them into his hips and rear. He did so three times, snarling in pain each time until once again the plastic restraints gave way and dropped to the floor. Dean followed suit and laid flat on the concrete surface, blinking back tears as the pins and needles racing along his arms and into his fingers viciously assaulted every nerve ending in them.

"You okay?" Sam asked warily.

"Peachy," Dean groaned and pushed himself unsteadily to his knees again.

His hands were flopping around, not obeying commands as he shook them violently, trying to coax blood back into them. The pain was nearly blinding for the first minute but soon leveled off and began to abate to simply a dull, tired ache. Once he could make his fingers obey his commands, he tried to lever up the restraining bit on Sam's cuffs with his thumbnail but found no dexterity in his digits. Sighing, he turned instead to his boots.

"Why are you untying your shoes?" Sam asked, as he watched his brother clumsily unlaced his boots and tie two loops—one in each end—of the removed lace.

Dean threaded the lace through the tie holding Sam's ankles in place. He then placed one loop each over the toes of his own boots and drew some tension on the string. He quickly began "peddling" his feet back and forth so that the lace acted like a saw and tore through the bindings. Once Sam's legs were free, he made his little brother wiggle around so that his back faced Dean. He repeated the process on Sam's hand restraints. In another minute, Sam was free as well.

"How did you…?" Sam gaped at him.

"Believe it or not, the guy who put us here taught me on a rainy afternoon when I was 10," Dean chuckled as he relaced his boot with the paracord string.

"Wait, you know him?" Sam asked. "When you were 10? Dean, I've never met this man. What is he, one of your old sadistic Little League coaches?"

"Uh, something like that," Dean nodded. "Don't worry about it, Sammy. He's not going to hurt us."

"Not going to hurt us?" Sam repeated indignantly. "Has it passed your notice that he unlawfully and criminally restrained us in his basement after rendering both of us unconscious? Oh my God, Dean! You were unconscious. Your head. He hit you or zapped you like me. Are you alright?"

"I've been worse," Dean groaned as he climbed to his feet, regretting the altitude change as the world dipped and whirled like a drunken pole dancer. "Can you walk?"

Sam struggled to his feet, stating he still felt a little jittery from his French kiss with a light socket but managed to get upright and button his jeans around his hips once again. He felt his pockets and noted that his phone was missing. Dean did the same with similar results.

"Well, he is the best," Dean noted with a sigh and he moved toward the far wall, one with a large shelving unit covering it. "Come on, let's get out of here."

Sam stared at his brother, bothered by his lack of concern or evident worry. There was no anxiety in his voice, no hint of panic. Sam voiced his worry that Dean had a serious concussion and was not thinking rationally.

"Rational is overrated and isn't really necessary right now," Dean advised. "Now, help me move this shelf so we can get out of here."

"The shelf?" Sam repeated and stood before it with his arms flapping. "You think you're going to run through the wall? You MacGyvered us out of the plastic handcuffs, I'll give you that, but you can't run through a cement wall. You're not the Hulk or Superman, Dean."

"That's right," Dean said. "How many times do I have to tell you this: I'm more like Batman. So, come on, Robin. Do your sidekick thing and help me out."

Together, despite Sam rolling eyes and reluctance, they shifted the shelf forward, swinging it away from the wall with an angry shriek of metal against concrete to reveal an iron door set into the wall. Dean looked at his brother with a triumphant grin as he nodded.

_Won't doubt big brother's super powers so easily again, will you? _

Dean cranked the door open to reveal the panic room, not yet fully finished. He always knew Bobby was exaggerating when he said he built it over a weekend. He did the demon warding over a weekend, but the structure itself seemed to have an older feel to Dean whenever he was near it. There was also a memory, tucked deep in his brain, about the last time he saw Bobby with John Winchester—the day of their dreadful fight that resulted in Bobby raising a weapon to the man—that Dean recalled. He had come up from the basement when John and Dean first arrived and wreaked of solder and welding. He had been welding something in the basement. Years later, Dean thought he knew what. The discovery of the room, years before Bobby would have admitted to the Winchesters that it existed, confirmed that.

The brother's climbed out of the half completed room with help of a ladder appropriated from the basement and a few other items to boost the ladder even higher, allowed them to snake out of the small opening to let light into the room.

Once outside, Dean noted (without surprise) that his car was missing. He shrugged, not finding it to be a huge loss. It was just as well it was gone. He could be traced to it. It disappearing opened the door for him to go to ground and disappear as well. He knew he should be more worried about Bobby's actions, but some part of him refused to be afraid of the man. Bobby was a paranoid and grouchy bastard. The tale Dean told him would have sent all sorts of red flags up and so, naturally, he had locked up the two people who seemed to be at the center of the apocalyptic tale.

He explained as much to Sam, leaving out little details like the fact that he was actually from the year 2013 and that all the scary things Hollywood made horror films about were sort of true. Sam, appearing shocked (whether from the tazing or from the revelations) remained silent and simply followed Dean, his long feet dragging and he dug his hands deep into his pockets and slouched along behind him with a sulky and scared face.

"Don't worry, Sam," Dean said as they located a late 1990's Toyota Corrolla with mismatched colored doors at the back of the salvage yard. "I know what we need to do. Hop in so we can hit the road."

"Dean, we need to go to the hospital," Sam insisted, looking with wide and bulging eyes at his brother who had just effectively hotwired the car in front of them. "And you need to explain how you know how to do the escape artist and car thief thing?"

"All in good time, Sammy," Dean grinned and revved the engine.

**OoOoOoO**

The duo had been quiet, Dean humming along with a classic rock station, Sam glaring at him wide-eyed for several minutes as they merged onto I-29 as Dean explained they would be at their destination in about 5 hours as the evening traffic was light. Sam merely shook his head then raked his hands through his mussed hair.

"Dean, where are we going?" Sam asked. "What's going on? You're not okay. I don't know how we got to that place or how you know that man, but we need help. Please, let's just go find the police."

Dean shook his head, regretting that he had no more Vicodine for two reasons. One, drugged Sam was much easier to roadtrip with and keep under control. And two, his body ached like he'd been run over by a truck. It seemed, from a quick inspection of a the new bruises on his body, that Bobby had simply rolled his body down the stairs rather than carry him. The lump on the back of his head was swollen and crusty with blood. His vision wasn't nearly as blurry as when he first awoke and the throbbing was less. At least the pain in the back of his head made the one in the front of his head—the one he'd felt since he first woke up in his old room in Lawrence—seem a little less apparent.

"We're going to get help, Sam," Dean said. "Just trust me."

"I trusted you this morning!" Sam shouted. "I trusted you and I wound up on the floor of a madman's house bound and worried about sexual assault."

"Bobby isn't interested in you that way, Sam," Dean scoffed, although he was worried about the older hunter's overall interest.

Dean had figured Bobby incapacitated both men in an effort to be safe. Dean's story was shocking and worrisome—particuarly for someone who could believe he wasn't crazy or making it up. That he didn't kill them was a good sign, he figured. He had obviously put them in a place where they could be held without harming anyone. If he wanted them dead, he could easily have done it. From the minor scrapes on his arm, Dean figured the hunter had done the normal tests to make sure they were human. As Bobby knew that, they were safe, Dean was certain. He just didn't know what to do with them until he verified some parts of Dean's story. That's what the old man was doing, Dean was sure.

"Where are we going?" Sam asked heatedly. "Dean, so help me, if you do not answer me, I will… I'll… jump out of this car."

Dean smirked and shook his head, depressing the accelerator further to push the speed closer to 70. He looked at his brother with a dare he knew the younger man would not take. Sighing defeatedly, Sam sank into his seat and put on his bitchy worried face, the one Dean knew him to wear anytime he suspect his brother was hiding injuries or ailments from him.

"Kansas," Dean said finally. "We're going to Kansas. There. Satisfied?"

"Why don't we just go to the police?" Sam asked.

"Because… it's not a good idea," Dean said. "We need to go to Kansas to sort this out. Okay?"

Sam looked warily at him. Whether it was the residual subdued effect of all the drugs Dean pumped into him earlier or the cumulative effect of them with his tazing, he slumped in his seat and stared dejectedly out at the passing night landscape. He folded his arms tightly, defiantly, as he refused to look in his brother's direction, but his posture spoke of waves of worry. Dean sighed and shook his head. He couldn't tell the kid the truth. This Sam knew nothing of the horrors in their future and (if Dean could pull his off) he would never need to know about them. He just needed to get to Kansas and go to the one place he knew as absolutely safe and would likely have the answers.

**OoOoOoO**

Darkness was thick and deep with no hint of the sun near the horizon as Dean parked the stolen junker outside the seemingly abandoned entrance to what appeared to be a no longer used entrance into and old storm water runoff system. Sam was snoozing, spent from his tense anger and his long day, in the passenger seat as Dean picked the lock. The door swung open and revealed precisely what he thought it would: Their Batcave. Dean quickly roused Sam and dragged him, half asleep into the bunker to show him their lodgings for the evening. He cut Sam off before he could ask many questions.

"Yes, this is in Kansas," Dean said gruffly. "No, it's not Lawrence. No, we are not calling the police. Now, there's a bed down the hall to the left. That's yours. Mine is just around the corner from it. The bathroom is on the right. Sleep, shower, whatever. I'll get us some food in the morning."

Sam gaped at him and surveyed the room with wide and curious eyes. Whatever worry he had, it was quickly buried under his nearly orgasmic attraction to the shelves of books ringing the room. Dean patted his brother on the shoulder and shook his head. He marched Sam, in his trance like state, to the table in the middle of the library.

"Stay," he said, as if he was ordering a puppy. He then went to the shelves and pulled half a dozen books from the shelves—all lore books that did not contain direct or overt references to magic—and laid them on the table in front of his brother. "Now, read, or go to bed. If you're a good Sammy, I'll take you for a walk tomorrow and get you a treat, okay?"

"Dean, what is this place?" Sam asked, marveling at the room, his eyes fairly rolling in amazement in their sockets.

"Sanctuary," Dean said simply. "Now, go lay down again or read a book—but none of the ones on the bookcase near the wall where we entered. Just the ones on the table, okay?"

Sam nodded, blandly, still reeling from their afternoon and evening as prisoners and then escapees who acted a lot more like fugitives than made him comfortable. From his expression, what bothered him equally was how much none of this seemed to phase his older brother.

Dean nodded slowly, encouraging Sam to grab a book or a bunk. Unsurprisingly, he opted for the written word. Dean shook his head and smiled appreciatively as he moved down the hall toward one of the small rooms where supplies were kept. As soon as he was out of Sam's sight and earshot in the storage room, he began pulling the needed ingredients for his summoning ritual from the cabinets around him. He gathered them and mixed them as required then drew the chalk sigil on the table, muttered a few Latin words (not as smoothly as Sam, his Sam that is, could, but passably) then dropped a lit match into the silver bowl. The sudden flash over was brief and bright.

Dean waited. He stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. He looked at his watch and sighed. He was starting to curse under his breath when a slight rustle of the air announced the arrival of of wings. Dean looked into the eyes of the creature that had appeared and his curses rose quickly to the surface again.

His visitor wore a velvety jacket, a V-neck fine gauge sweater, a pair of jean and pointy leather boots of some pale, snakeskin material. His hair was carelessly tousled and he appeared frazzled, as though materializing was the last thing he hoped to be doing in that instant. From his sour expression, Dean supposed that was probably accurate.

"Damn it!" Dean shouted, looking angrily at the thin, blond, arrogant looking man standing before him. "What the hell?! You? Really?"

"Me?" the man replied in a snooty, accented tone as he turned up his nose. "Yes, me. Why the disappointment? Who were you expecting? You do realize that you summoned an angel, not your girlfriend."

Dean ground his teeth for a moment and reminded himself that punching an angel only hurt him and not the winged creature. The vessel was much stronger and more resilient than it appeared, always.

"Okay, enough of that crap," Dean seethed and looked to the ceiling. "Cas, I asked for you, not for one of your prick frat brothers! Get your ass down here, man. I mean it!"

He waited but there was no flutter of wings, no quick rush of wind. It was just him and the arrogant pencil neck giving him the stink eye.

"What do you want, you pathetic excuse for a… whatever you seem to think you are?" the replacement angel asked.

"Cas," Dean seethed. "I want to talk to Castiel. He's your boss here on the planet, right? He's the head of Heaven's Garrison on Earth right now—took over for Anna when she ripped out her grace and fell about 20 years ago. How I'm doing for a pathetic whatever now, dickless?"

The angel shrugged and sniffed superiorly. The lack of homicidal intent in his eyes told Dean his visitor was precisely who he recognized him to be. It also told him that this angel in this universe also was not as openly hostile as Uriel (thank goodness for small favors, Dean thought); the lack of murderous rage when looking at Dean led him to believe that the guy was not a follower of Zachariah in this world either. That meant, Dean hoped, he was the same selfish and egomaniacal asshat Dean remembered.

"I am, in fact, anatomically correct and more than proficient in the usage of all appendages belonging to my vessel," the angel informed. "I happen to be…"

"Balthazar, yeah, I got that, fucking great," Dean seethed. The angel blanched in surprise. "Well, you're not Cas, but you're the next closest thing, I guess. Pretty fucking far from him actually, but you'll have to do. Where the hell is your buddy anyway? All boyfriend jokes aside, I don't like being stood up."

Balthazar's eyes glowed angrily for a moment and the room surged with a burst of indescribable energy. Dean felt himself tingle in a sorts of places. It was kind of nice, mildly erotic even, for a moment, but as the power of the pulse continued he began to feel a crushing pain in his chest and in the back of his head. It forced him to his knees as the high-pitched noise, the one he recalled being the voice of an angel, overwhelmed him, drawing blood from his ears as he covered them and cowered.

"You aren't supposed to know any of this, Dean Winchester," Balthazar said. "Now tell me: What have you done to Castiel?"

"What?" Dean gasped from his crumpled spot on the floor. "Turn the fucking volume down! Now!"

The light and hissing sounds subsided, leaving Dean's heart racing and sweat pouring off his brow. He clambered clumsily to his feet. He used his shoulder to wipe the blood drizzling from his ear down his neck mingling with the sweat beading on his brow and racing down his face. He felt sick and swallowed the urge to wretch as he fixed Balthazar with a demanding gaze.

"What do you mean: What did I do to Cas?" Dean asked. "I've been praying to him. I've been looking for him. I need his help."

"He last contacted the garrison months ago," Balthazar said. "He was with you, as he always is, watching over you, and then he stopped. You were nearly kill in one of your automobiles, or rather you were supposed to be. You eluded your reaper for a while and when the end was supposed to come, you managed to slip back into your body. How did you do that? Or did you do it at all?"

The angel cocked his head to the side and stared boldly at Dean, as if he could look through him. Considering the celestial's powers, Dean shrugged, the guy probably could.

"Cas was driving the car and somehow I didn't die," Dean said. "I don't understand what happened any more than you do . Jimmy, his vessel, is laying in a hospital bed wasting away, and Cas is MIA."

"Yes, well, Castiel's vessel became uninhabitable," the angel explained with a lack of concern that grated on Dean's nerves.

"Uninhabitable?" Dean repeated angrily. "So if Cas and Jimmy were already dirty dancing, why didn't he just reboot the system and heal himself?"

"A better question is how do you know about anything you are saying to me, and why are you here at all?" Balthazar said, his anger flaring again as he stared fiercely at Dean. "Your time here is… up… My god. What are you?"

His eyes grew bright and bored into Dean's, making him squint and wince away from their power. He held up his hand to shield them for a moment until the intensity waned.

"Never mind me right now, but turn off the light show, Rudolph," Dean shook his head blinking away the bright spots popping in front of him. "Look, I know I'm not supposed to be here."

"No," Balthazar agreed. "You're not. You… Or rather, the soul that inhabited Dean Winchester's body from conception until the accident, isn't supposed to be here. You, whatever you are, certainly doesn't belong here."

"Hold on," Dean cut him off. "The soul that inhabited this body? It's my body."

"No, it's not," Balthazar said dismissively then added pensively. "That body belongs to the soul of Dean Winchester, the one who is supposed to be in Hell on the way to breaking the First Seal. All indications are that that soul is there now in fact. And yet… this vessel holds your soul… which is… Well, strikingly similar to Dean Winchester's. So very similar… A near perfect match, but not quite of course. In fact, you're burning away this vessel from the inside. Your soul cannot remain in that body much longer."

"I'm sorry," Dean gaped and blinked his confusion. "What?"

Balthazar approached him and laid his hand flat on Dean's chest. He left a vibrating sensation, hot and intense for a moment that left him gasping before the angel stepped back and gave a tisk, tisk sound as he shook his head.

"Every human body is a vessel for its soul," he explained. "That soul and that body are uniquely tailored for one another, which is why not all human bodies can be vessels for angels. Finding the right fit is tricky, nearly impossible, which is why we are fortunate there are 7 billion of you. After all, one wrong choice, and it's rather like a…"

"An explosion of a water balloon filed with chunky soup?" Dean offered and nodded.

"Basically," Balthazar nodded unconcerned, as he plucked casually at Dean's sleeve and wrinkled his nose distastefully. "This vessel you inhabit is fully not yours. It's nearly yours, the fit is… impressive, but… Well, surely you've felt the signs of rejections or rather ejection? Constricting pains in the chest? Perhaps headaches that feel like an ice pick being jabbed through your eye socket? A feeling like your consciousness is being peeled away from your flesh?" Dean swallowed hard and looked back with a haunted expression. "Yes, all classic signs. Granted, they usually occur in the milliseconds before explosion, but yours seems to be holding together… for now."

"So I can't stay like this?" he asked.

"I have no idea," Balthazar said with a casual shrug. "You shouldn't be in there at all." He took a strategic step back. Dean offered him an accusing look. "Human effluvium stains, and this is a cashmere fiber. Have you ever tried to get red porridge out of a fine gauge knit?"

Dean growled and shook his head.

**OoOoOoO**

Thirty minutes later, Dean had finished his second rendition of his tale, this time to an angel (one he didn't exactly trust). Balthazar sat on the table in the room, lounging like he was a slut on a piano in a bar. His leg draped lazily over the edge as he ran his finger through the summoning sigil and etched out a series of dirty words in the chalk dust.

"Okay, let me see if I'm getting all this," Balthazar yawned as Dean finished. "Where you come from, you made a deal to save your brother after your father made a deal to save you?" Dean nodded. "Cas then rescued you from hell, after you broke the First Seal, and then you and your brother eventually derailed the apocalypse? Why should I believe that? Keep in mind that I happen to know that it's absolute bullshit because none of that has happened."

"Not here and now it hasn't, but where I'm from, it's old news," Dean insisted. "Look, you got a better explanation for why I know more about what's happening than you do? If you've got a theory, I'm all ears, Feathers."

"Touché," the angel nodded. "So you believe someone made another deal—not the one I know you made when you were 16?"

Dean shirked back at the news and shook his head firmly.

"What?" he asked feeling like he had been sucker punched. "I made… the me who was here made a deal?"

"A rather sad choice for a soul sale, if you ask me," Balthazar continued, examining his cuticles with deep interest. "I do hope you got the chance to taste the pleasures of as many women as possible in the process. Otherwise, you sold your soul to spend the bulk of your time around sweaty men in tight pants. Unless of course that was what tickled your fancy? If so, then good on you, you hit the jackpot."

"I didn't make a deal!" Dean insisted, although it seemed he was not going to convince the angel of this. "I mean, not that deal. I did it to save Sam, in 2006. I got dragged to Hell in 2007, and Cas brought me back a few months later."

"A few months?" the angel scoffed. "Really? In the betting pool even the best odds had you lasting just a week or two. Well, bully for you."

Dean's head reeled. The angel was telling him that as far as he knew, Dean made a deal when he was in high school—just old enough to drive—and the payment had come due that fateful night in July when the crash occurred.

"Actually, you and your brother both made deals," Balthazar revealed. "He, of course, wasn't of actual interest to my demonic neighbors. And, naturally, Sam is off limits to the crossroads gang as a rule because of my brother's little protection plan for him. His minions, of course, didn't raise suspicion about his attempted deal. They simply used the age limitation loophole to get him out of it. A 12-year-old isn't permitted to make a deal—14 is the age of consent on these things. But fortunately, he helped you with yours. After all, he was the one who found your grandfather's books, the ones your mother had stashed away in the attic, and talked you into trying it."

Dean felt the blood drain from his face and his knees grow week. He gripped the table as he shook his head at the angel's revelation. Balthazar, however, was unmoved. He continued heedless of Dean's distress.

"He was, shall we say, secretly dabbling in extracurricular activities since he was 10 and found those books," the angel said. "At the time you played spin the bottle with your crossroads hook up, you and Sam were both sick of the arguing between your parents. You asked to have a life that kept you away from them and get away from the chaos of your home."

Dean cocked is head disbelievingly at the information. It seemed like a small wish, not that those weren't dangerous, but it did not seem to fit with the life he apparently led in this world.

"I didn't ask to be Mr. Baseball MVP?" Dean wondered.

"No," Balthazar shook his head. "Which is probably why you haven't acted like your time was winding down, indulging in flesh and potent nectars and more lovely flesh the way most do when their expiration date approaches. Of course, that might also be because you didn't believe the deal actually happened. You relegated it to some lame joke your brother tried to play on you."

"What does that mean?" Dean asked and felt crushing defeat leech from his bones. "Does it mean that all my great baseball skills and accomplishments here, they're not really mine?"

Dean felt a crushing and crashing disappointment wash over him. Not that he believed he was superstar material, but it was a childhood dream, playing in the big show, being the guy with the records. He kept his love for baseball, and that silly dream, a secret from the world. Finding out that, given better odds, he could never have made it even in a normal life was… sadly believable.

"That's truly the funniest part—well, maybe not for you," Balthazar chuckled while tossing off with a careless shrug. "You actually did all of that, all your achievements—your career playing that pathetic game and your academic accomplishments—all on your own. No one helped you. No supernatural steroids in your Wheaties, as it were. You have natural talent and a passion for the game. Now, I want to be clear, I honestly don't care about you as a person. Frankly, I'm not sure I like you at all."

"Feeling's mutual," Dean muttered. The angel shrugged, accepting the statement graciously but unconcerned by it.

"However," Balthazar said, "I know I'm not alone in thinking that you sold your soul for nothing. The only thing your red-eyed little friend seemed to do was insure that you didn't end playing for that dreadful team in Boston, but in a technical sense that does fulfill their end of the bargain, so there are you are."

"A draft pick?" Dean seethed. "I got a National League draft rather than an American League? That's all my soul is worth?"

"No, that's just all they gave you for it," the angel shrugged. "A soul is priceless, but you, being a moronic teenager who gave more daily consideration to your loins than your afterlife, didn't get technical with them. You didn't seem to believe the deal was real. So, other than seeing that you didn't end up on a team that was not going to win, there is no evidence the little hell spawn who locked lips with you has done anything for you more directly. Your eagerness and determination to be the best in the game has carried you. Frankly, if I was in your position, I would argue they haven't upheld their end of the deal and they owe you something more or that deal is negated by their failure to pay up. Of course, there is a chance they were mostly doing it to just screw with the Boston team and your god-given talent and skill at this sport was the easiest way to do that. Boston's rivals are considered the Evil Empire, are they not? I mean, you don't even need to be a baseball fan to know the Yankees could use a good exorcism."

Baseball rivalries aside, Dean wondered if there was a glimmer of hope to be found in the angel's offerings.

"I can argue this deal?" he asked. "Successfully?"

"Oh, no, certainly not," Balthazar shook his head. "You can argue, but you're living on borrowed time. Or rather, this body is. No, Dean Winchester is supposed to be in Hell right now, actually, there's a chance that he is. Well, your soul from this place and time is, anyway. If I read my interoffice memos correctly, I believe you, that is the Dean who wears this vessel normally, is supposed to break the First Seal in a few weeks—November 2, in our time. Several decades into your penance down there."

Dean swallowed hard. Hell. He was going back to Hell. Again. The thought terrified him and brought on a wave of naseau.

"Hold on, a psychic told me there's no lien on my soul," he said. "Was she wrong?"

"No," the angel shook his head. "Your soul, this one you possess and holds your memories, is clear of any tethers to a deal. As you said, you did not sell this soul to the demons of this world, which is probably why you didn't die in that crash or wound up in this vessel when the other soul left it."

"I woke up in my bedroom months after the crash," Dean said. "My… soul wasn't in this body until then!"

"Well, there are holes in every story, you should just get used to it and move on to finish the story," Balthazar shrugged unconcerned while casually swinging his feet off the edge of the table. "Of course, you've got a greater problem at the moment. The hunters of this world are going to kill your brother, which, if you want to save him, means you probably need to be an even better hunter than you seem to think you are. I suppose, you could sell your soul again. Sort of like taking a second mortgage on it."

"What?" Dean gaped. "No, I'm not… Who's hunting Sam? They don't know who he is or about any of this."

"Certainly, they do," the angel answered. "You told that vicious Mr. Singer about him."

"Bobby's not like that," Dean disagreed. "I trust him. He's a good man. He doesn't just kill because…"

The egg on the back of Dean's head protested loudly in that instant, reminding him that Bobby here wasn't precisely the man he knew from his lifetime. Still, he could not accept that the old hunter was going to harm Sam. Hot, rolling acid churned in his stomach at the possibility.

"You trust the Robert Singer you knew," Balthazar pointed out. "The one in this reality is stridently different, I suspect. This Mr. Singer is generally considered a blood-thirsty maniac who kills anything he deems to be unnatural, and few things he simply doesn't like. He's been that way since his wife died. He worked with a man, Rufus Turner, learning about demons and monsters of all sorts, then they had a falling out. Mr. Singer was… a loose cannon, I believe is the saying and Mr. Turner found he could not trust him and walked away from their partnership—gun trained on his compatriot in the process, just to be safe. This Mr. Singer had nothing to live for after losing his wife so he decided he would kill everything in his path that displeased him."

"That's not possible," Dean shook his head. "Bobby's not like that. I know him. He's… good. He's reasonable."

"He's a vicious, old drunk who has been on a murder spree for the better part of two decades," Balthazar chuckled superiorly as he corrected Dean in a bored tone. "He is the kind of man most hunters avoid. They share information with him, but they do not hunt with him. One does not turn one's back on rabid animals or Bobby Singer. It's practically the hunter's creed."

Dean shook his head. It wasn't possible. Bobby was not a murder. He wasn't vicious or dangerous to anything that wasn't out for innocent blood. He was decent man, one of the best men Dean ever met. He helped people. He cared about people, about humanity.

"He was like a father to me," Dean said weakly. "To me and Sam."

"Well, there's your missing piece," Balthazar pointed out dully. Dean looked at him mystified. "The man lost his beloved wife to a demon and turned to vengeance. He had nothing but hate in his heart, and it turned him dark and dangerous after a while. Apparently, in your world, he had something else to focus on: you and your brother. It always amazes me that humans never recognize the awesome and transformative power of the emotion of love nor the importance they each may hold in the lives of others. Give that kind of love to someone and you can make a saint; take it away and you may give birth to a monster."

_Without me and Sammy Bobby went darkside? He was there for us, our rock. I thought he was the one keeping us…. me from going over the edge. I never thought what we meant to him. I mean, yeah, he cared. We always knew that, but… Was it really that huge having us? We made that much of a difference to him? I always thought we were the ones who benefited most._

"You've got to stop him," Dean pleaded. "Whatever he's going to do, you can't let him do it. I thought I could make things right here by just… I don't know, taking care of the big things, but every step just leads me down a worse path than I thought. Look, are you on board with the whole Apocalypse thing? Do you want it to happen?"

The angel shrugged noncommittally. Dean knew the rogue angel reaped many benefits when the boys derailed the big prize fight plans. He saw nothing in the angel that said Balthazar was any different in this reality. Of course, he didn't suspect anything was wrong with Bobby either…

"I'm utterly indifferent in that I have no interest in fighting," Balthazar said. "I was quite young the last time we had that sort of family reunion, and I do not go home for that precise reason. It does get a bit boring sometimes, but I prefer it here at camp, as it were. So, I stayed out of everythign the last time Michael and Lucifer, uh, settled things in the parking lot, I believe is an apt description. I do my job, which consists mostly of doing nothing. It's a career I excel at and would like to keep."

Dean nodded. That was the Balthazar he knew and… well, didn't like, but understood to a point. The guy was a self-centered, egomaniacal coward. He would rather fake his own death (which he had done once) to hide than take a side to stand for something.

"Alright, then here's the deal," Dean seized on a plan. "We sidestepped it, okay? My brother and I took care of the Apocalyse and shelved the whole big show, end of the world production. Then the whole hierarchy of heaven fell apart. Your garrison? Gone, basically. Free will and angels don't exactly mix and a lot of your brothers and sisters were slaughtered."

"Most of them probably deserved it," he shrugged, then added with more interest. "Was I one of them?"

"Honestly, I don't know," Dean replied and realized it was the total truth. "I haven't seen you in nearly two years."

There was a slim chance Balthazar didn't get busted by Cas when he was having his God-complex tantrum, but Dean thought it was unlikely. Balthazar helped him, Sam and Bobby when they needed to defuse Castiel after he opened Purgatory. Balthazar dropped from the radar at that point. Dean suspected he was dead, likely at Cas's hand, but he did not know for certain.

"But you think I am?" Balthazar surmised.

"I know the last time I saw you, you had bogartted a stash of heavenly weapons and were selling them on the black market or using them to stay a step ahead of… the competition," Dean shrugged as he replied in a calculating fashion. "You took off after you helped me, and I haven't heard from you since. I don't know what your disappearance means. For all I know, you're doing what you were doing when I first met you."

"Which was what precisely?"

"The breast stroke in a hot tub of women, or that's what I got out of your story when Cas first called on you," Dean replied. "Look, right now I know two things: You believe me, and you're still talking to me. That tells me that you may be the only one who can help me."

"Help you?" the angel asked cautiously.

"I need to go back and not make that deal," Dean replied. "It's the only way to fix this. There's a spell. I have it. I just need some angelic Red Bull to pull it off. You send me back to that moment in the same way I got knocked back here, and I'll do it right this time."

"There will be two of you in the same reality—which is ill advised," Balthazar said. "Your soul will attempt to enter your vessel, and it can barely contain you now. Honestly, you should watch more SciFi films. Terrible writing, worse acting, but they do get some of the bigger things right. You cannot exist for very long in a reality with two of you there at the same time."

"Where the hell is my soul from right now?" Dean asked.

"Interesting question, all indications are that it is in Hell," Balthazar ventured. "That might explain where Castiel is as well. He was supposed to fetch you out. It might explain why we cannot find him and his vessel is empty and not repairing itself."

"Cas is stuck in Hell?" Dean gasped.

This kept getting worse and worse. That settled things for Dean. He knew, without a doubt, that needed to go back. That instant.

"Just send me back," Dean said.

"You don't see the folly in this?" Balthazar said. "You were thrown here by accident and tried to make it right and ended up only make things colossal worse. Now, you want to try it again to fix the mistakes you are finding now. Human existence is about free will. That's what my Father gave you that he did not give us or any other creature in his creation."

"You seem to do as you please," Dean pointed out.

"I'm a disappointment," Balthazar shrugged simply. "I'm also a coward and an opportunist. Honestly, circumstances make my choices much more than I do. Still, your problem is that you are letting the same thing happen to you. You can choose not to make this worse. Don't you see that going back to perfect things simply thwarts the whole concept of free will and shall only make things worse. No good will come of it, Dean. This is the hand you've been given based on the choices you've made. You don't get a Mulligan. The price of your happiness is sacrifice."

Dean seethed.

"These aren't my choices!" he said. "Asshead, someone else did this. Do you get that? Someone fucked with my free will in my reality so I'm stuck here. Don't I get the chance to undue that?"

"But to truly do that, I would need to get you to your actual time, the one you know as your own with all the choices you did make," Balthazar said. "As I see it, you cannot do that as that time does not exist… precisely. So how do you intend to remedy this?"

"Just do the goddamned spell," Dean snapped. "Send me back to the point when I made this deal in this universe and leave the rest to me!"

"Ah, Winchester logic at its best," Balthazar smiled smugly. "So glad to be on board with this completely infallible plan."

**OoOoOoO**

* * *

A/N: Let me take this moment to bow my head and ask forgiveness for the blasphemous statement I wrote in this chapter against my beloved Yankees. It was necessary. I swear it.

Also, for those who want to see for real how Dean slipped out of his zip tie restraints—the description is the proper way but not overly detailed. It is something I think everyone (especially women) should know. I won't go into detail for why and I know how to do the escape thing, but suffice to say it's not a bad skill to have. Also, using paracord for shoes laces has many, many great uses (yes, I grew up with a crush on MacGyver, and do so love Mythbusters, so I recommend replacing your traditional laces with the stuff, if only because it is useful for a million things, not just escaping from various forms of detention, plus there are a lot of really cool colors). Check out the website below (type it into your browser with no spaces because FF won't allow the full site to print properly here) for some basic instruction videos on the escape methods. Not to be a fear-monger or anything, but knowing this skill could save a life…. And even if you never need it (and I sincerely hope that is the case), it makes for a very interesting topic of discussion at parties or family gatherings. More to come with the story.

www . itstactical skillcom/lock-picking/how-to-escape-from-zip-ties/ 


	13. Chapter 13

Title: The Price of Happiness (Chapter 13)

Notes: A special thank you to those who have read my book and dropped me a PM to say so. (I am particularly flattered that so several of you stated you hoped Jensen would someday play the lead character in a movie). Your hopes and optimism inspire me (so maybe I will get that sequel finished after all).

* * *

**oOoOoOo**

Dean stared at his brother, asleep with his cheek plastered to the open page of a book (one Dean did not take off the shelf for him to read). Apparently, Dean sighed, this little brother didn't listen any better than the one he raise. Of course, this one was less adept at hiding his deviations from express orders. Whether that pleased him or worried him, Dean did not know. What he did know was that his kid was hip deep in bad mojo and they needed to pull each other out before the mess came and swallowed both of them.

"Sam!" Dean shouted as he stood over the snoring form sleeping. There was no reaction for a moment.

Dean sighed in a worried, weary and perturbed fashion as he pinched the spaced between his eyebrows. If this was his actual brother, he'd be barking the name 'Sammy' only that didn't seem right with this man. Yes, he looked and sounded a lot like Sam. But there was no denying, at his core, he wasn't precisely Dean's brother. Certainly there were moments and instances of deceit between the brothers during their lives, there were rebellious outbursts and plenty of fights, but in the end, they were partners (in crime and in fighting evil) which meant there was respect. They sometimes bruised that respect, threw it in the trunk under the dirty laundry or just somehow forgot where they put it for an afternoon, but they could never actually lose it. They cared too much for each other and could not let each other truly suffer for long.

This guy, however, was another story. Dean did not think he was evil or cruel, but he simply wasn't as attached to Dean as his own Sam was. This man grew up with a real family and friends. He had opportunities and chances and lived a life. He also, apparently, knew more about the things in the shadows than his actual brother (the one with the soul being roasted and filleted in Hell if Balthazar was correct), and this kid let it happen. Not that he could have stopped it, but this Sam's avoidance of his brother, his hesitation to see him on the night that a reaper came to punch his ticket was disheartening. When Dean's own deal came due, Sam was with him. He fought until the bloody and bitter end to save Dean. This kid, he crawled into a hole and hid because he was afraid he would be next. Dean shook his head as he looked down on him, nuzzling a book about protection spells.

"Hey," Dean said roughly jostling the kid's shoulder jarring him awake. "You looking to double major in hoodoo and witchcraft?"

Sam shook himself awake and blanched as he looked from Dean's stern face to the book in front of him. Dean slammed the book shut and replaced on the shelf. Sam hung his head and chewed his lip.

"What?" Sam blinked. "No, I was… I just… I couldn't help it. There were books and…"

"And you're a junkie about those, yeah, I know," Dean sneered. "Okay, so since you're not precisely clueless about what's going on here, I'm going to let you know a few things. One, I'm not exactly the brother you grew up with. Two, your life is in serious danger from a demon—not the one you're banging but her boss, sort of; and three…"

"A demon?" Sam gaped and stared.

"Yeah, sweet little Meg is a black-eyed bitch whose only interest in you is in…," Dean paused. "You know, we never did figure out what Meg's actually goal was other than the screw with us. She's on Yellow Eyes' payroll, but I don't know what her end game is. Huh. Funny I never asked her."

He shrugged, letting himself off the hook figuring whatever she said, he wouldn't likely believe her. He hadn't even given her much of a thought since the last time he saw her nearly a year earlier. That was the day he gave her the keys to his Baby. Dean shuddered at the memory and silently begged the car for forgiveness once again.

"What are you talking about?" Sam demanded.

"Too many details to catch you up entirely," Dean said dismissively. "What I can tell you is that I have a plan and I'll need your help in that I need you not to do anything. I mean it, Sam. Nothing. You stand where I tell you to stand. You sit when I tell you to sit. You speak only when I ask you a question, got that?"

"No," he shook his head. "Dean, back in South Dakota, I thought you were having some sort of relapse or reaction to what was going on, but then we came here and…. What the hell are you into?"

"Survival," Dean nodded. "Mine and yours. The whole family's, actually. So, you need to trust me."

Sam looked at him with a mixture of fear and confusion. Not seeing any dissent or brewing argument, Dean took it as consent. Before he could move forward with his directions, Balthazar appeared in the room, holding the spell book Dean located for him. The formula was not long and the actual incantation appeared short. One of the oddities on Dean's experience was being able to read Latin with very little trouble although he understood very few words of the archaic language. He had memorized the words of the spell needed, but what it actually meant was mostly a mystery to him.

"Well, this doesn't look overly complicated," Balthazar said, making Sam leap from his seat in surprise. His eyes were wild with fright at the sudden appearance.

"Oh, right," Dean shrugged. "Sam, this is Balthazar. He's a self-righteous dickhead, but he's also an opportunistic douche bag so that works in our favor."

"I usually just pronounce it superior celestial being or Angel of the Lord," Balthazar replied in a bored tone without looking up from the spell book. "By the way, I have a message for you Dean from your friend Missouri. You're on your own."

"On my own?" Dean scoffed. "No kidding. When did you talk to her anyway?"

"I didn't," the angel looked up from his reading. "One of those snotty little reapers told me. Apparently, delivering the message was the only way to drag your rotund friend into the light. So, there. Mission accomplished."

Dean looked oddly at him. He shook his head in disbelief at the offering. He felt his chin drop slightly as the realization of it struck him.

"Oh right, my condolences and whatnot," Balthazar said callously. "She's dead and I'm certain its very sad or something like that."

"How?" Dean demanded, ignoring his brother's continued gaping, flushed expression.

"Had her throat slit while sitting in a car parked in front of your mother's home no less," Balthazar reported.

"By who?" Dean asked.

"By whom," the angel corrected then sighed. "Honestly, the English language is not so very difficult to master—particularly when it is the only one you remotely understand. Object of the preposition receives a… Oh never mind. As for who killed your friend, it was Mr. Singer, of course. Psychics are his enemy if they are not his friends. Your friend Miss Mosley certainly was not in his address book, ergo…"

Sam scoffed loudly and glared hard at Dean. His hard accusing eyes bored into his older brother. Guilt fell heavily on Dean's shoulders like a sodden blanket, dripping and soaking into his skin with a cold and clammy feeling.

"You said he could be trusted, that he wasn't dangerous," Sam snarled. "What the hell, Dean? Oh, and an angel? Really? A friggin' angel?! You've got some explaining to do!"

"Yeah, later maybe," Dean shook his head then countered on the other accusations defensively. "Look, how was I to know Bobby was… different?"

"You could have listened to the psychic who told you that you have no friends here," Balthazar offered with an ironic shrug.

Dean bristled at his mistake in choosing the consummate hunter over the staid and predictable preacher. In retrospect, going to Pastor Jim did seem a wiser choice—the one his father the hunter probably would have made. Dean hung his head at the error.

"Well, it's not like his Twitter handle was Soulless666," he grumbled.

Sam shirked back in confusion and blinked hard as he turned a puzzled face to his brother.

"What's a Twitter Handle?" Sam asked. "Is that like a sexual thing? I thought you said the guy wasn't a pervert."

"No, it's not a sex… well, sometimes it's a…," Dean scoffed. "You don't have Twitter here yet? There is something very wrong with me being this advanced, you know that?"

"Well, your alleged advanced nature aside," Balthazar continued snidely, "your only friend and guide in this world is now dead, which is mostly your fault, so enjoy the bitter anguish I can tell you feel already. Now, perhaps you will see why you cannot go through with this insane plan of yours. She was, after all, helping you and it turned horribly wrong. Take it as a final warning."

"I take it as a reason to get this fixed quicker than ever," Dean shook his head. "I do this; I can fix all of it. None of this has to happen."

"Of course, it does, you buffoon," Balthazar sighed and rolled his eyes dramatically. "She died while attempting to warn you—via your mother, which naturally failed. Don't you see? This is entropy; you world is unraveling at an alarming rate because that is your fate."

"Wait! Mom?" Sam croaked. "Is she okay?"

Dean jerked at the question. His mother. He hadn't given a thought to her, even when the angel said Missouri was killed outside the woman's home. He was so focused on getting to the spell and setting things right that her welfare did not jump to the fore of his mind. He felt sick about it, and about her possible fate.

"Oh, she wasn't there when your brother's fallen idol lopped off the poor woman's head," the angel said in a bored tone. "She had left an hour earlier to catch a plane to Chicago to join your father. It seems he is a little worse for the wear."

"What happened?" Dean demanded.

It was all unraveling, just as the angel said. That the celestial asshole wasn't showing concern or much enthusiasm in assisting only stoked Dean's anger. At least, he thought it was anger welling up in his chest. Etiher that or he was about to explode as Balthazar forecasted.

Rather than wait for an answer from the angel regarding John's fate, Sam charged toward the library. He turned on a radio, one the size of a small refrigerator that had likely been moved into the space in the 1930s and fiddling with the dials. After a lot of static, he tuned into a radio station and stared into the distance as he listened to the top news stories of the day. What the trio heard was astonishing. As the news brief ended, Sam sank to the floor, his back resting against the wall as if his limbs had turned to spaghetti.

"Oh crap," Sam gasped as he looked at the radio as the broadcast finished. "Dean!"

"What?" he asked, arriving in the room with the angel in tow.

"We've been kidnapped and are feared dead," Sam said.

"Excuse me?" Dean blinked.

"The radio report," Sam pointed at the device with a dumbstruck expression. "Someone was killed in the lobby of your apartment building and your apartment was trashed. Police think you were abducted in the process. Dad was… hurt when whoever it was entered your apartment."

"Hurt?" Dean asked, a cold knot forming in his stomach, fearing the man would yet again die because of him. "How bad?"

"They didn't say, only that he's in a hospital," Sam replied in small and scared voice. "At least they're saying he's alive. Mom must be frantic."

_Yellow Eyes._

_Or Meg. _

Dean shook his head angrily. Those were his leading choices, and he knew in his bones they were good ones. They'd used John to lure the boys before with disastrous results. _Not this time_, Dean told himself. This time, he would get them first… if he could get to Colt's gun. An exorcism was a bad idea. He at least knew what Meg looked like right now. Letting her go meatsuit hopping was just asking for an ambush in the future. No, he needed to use his knowledge about her to his advantage this time. Her current attachment to Sam could prove useful if she didn't think the boys were on to her yet, and why would she? They were off on a roadtrip as far as the world was concerned… only now the news was throwing around the word abduction, which complicated matters.

"Anything else?" Dean asked in a cold and controlled voice that raised a wide-eyed glance from his brother.

"That's not enough?" Sam squawked and stared at him with alarm.

"Why, because the police are looking for me?" Dean shrugged. "Actually, yes. Being wanted by police kind of feels more like my old life."

"Your old life?" Sam gaped. "What the hell does that mean? Dean, this calm thing you've got going worries me nearly as much as the news! Look, we need to find a phone and call… someone!"

"Later," Dean shrugged unconcerned.

"People are dying!" Sam shouted.

"There's a lot more where they came from if we waste time on the police," Dean continued.

"What is wrong with you and when did you…. How did you find this whatever this place is?" Sam asked in a deflated and accusatory tone as he threw his arms wide to the room. "You're a little too comfortable and complacent considering there's a… a…"

He gestured disbelievingly toward the Balthazar.

"A dick?" Dean asked then shrugged and rolled his eyes as Balthazar turned his nose up superiorly to him. "Fine, an _angel_."

"Yes, a friggin' angel, Dean," Sam raged. "This doesn't bother you?"

"Not so much, no," Dean shook his head as he chewed his lip to think.

"Okay, so I read some stuff and… maybe experimented with a few things a long time ago," Sam began.

"A crossroads deal isn't like a joint, Sam," Dean shook his head. "It's a whole other kind of gateway, okay? It doesn't matter that you didn't actually inhale on this one. I'm screwed because of… Look, I don't have time for this. We have work to do."

"Work?" Sam blasted at him, throwing his arms wide. "I think I'm losing my mind and you're acting like this is everyday matters to you! Dean, people are dying. You have a missing person's report filed on you—so do I. The reporter said police were also looking for me."

Dean cocked his head to the side for a moment and stared back at Sam, running his words over in his mind again. He then laughed and shook his head. It wasn't funny. Their father was hurt and that worried him, but Sam's innocence and his gullibility was nearly too precious and cute not to make him fall into hysterics or simply vomit. Sam stared back, his question evident on his face.

"You're not missing like I'm missing, Sam," Dean smirked. "From what you've just said, the news is insinuating that you're a suspect, little brother. Think about it: I'm missing. My apartment is a crime scene, but the news just says 5-oh is looking for you. Wow. This is new. It's usually the other way around. Well, aren't you just the new Dillinger. Don't worry. I'll take care of everything."

"Yes, because your assurances should hold so much weight," the angel offered as Dean flinched as the man strolled past him with a scoff. "After all, you did such a wonderful job getting help to 'fix things' by involving Mr. Singer."

Dean glared at him and gripped the back of a chair. His arms corded under the tension as he ground his teeth for a moment. Bobby needed a serious intervention, the kind with a lot ass-kicking and maybe a few bruised ribs, but Dean remained convinced he could turn the guy back to the light side of the force with the… well, proper force. He shook his head, disgusted at his failure to find a better movie metaphor in his mind. His head was feeling cloudy again and he needed to focus on his immediate plan then worry about Bobby later.

"Okay, fine," Dean vowed with a voice that was rough with seething frustration. "First thing when I get back from my little Marty McFly adventure, I am getting that man a puppy or a helper monkey, or anything living that is helpless and reminds him of his compassion."

"A helper monkey doesn't need help, Dean," Sam offered dully. "They're trained to be the helpers."

"That's what you got out of this whole discussion?" Dean growled. "Focus, Sam! Bobby is going to try to kill you next. Missouri must have… must have… Why did he even know about her? What's he going after her for?"

"Like I said, he has friends, well psychics who don't run from him," the angel explained. "Obviously, one of them gave him some information. You're hardly off the supernatural radar. You tangled with a half-manifested spirit recently that told you that you didn't belong—one apparently her senses could not see but you somehow could. That sort of things gets noticed to those who poke their noses behind the veil. Your friend Missouri contacted that spirit and he explained to her what you were—that you're… not exactly you. That spirit wasn't trying to hurt you, Dean; he was trying to help you—pull you into the light, or out of this vessel at least. Spirits are attracted to pain similar to their own. He was where he did not belong, and sensed as much about you. Miss Mosley, I am assuming, figured out from that information precisely what I told you about your expiration date. Logic would dictate, Mr. Singer wanted to deprive you of any assistance so she was sent packing."

Sam looked questioningly at his brother who refused to meet his eyes. Dean continued to grip the chair

The whole thing was making his head spin (or maybe it was his soul burning through his vessel) and he at least knew all the characters and the backstory: Mom was back in the hunting mix (sort of), possibly with a target on her back for either a misguided (okay, homicidal) hunter and a badass gang of hell bitches with a not so hidden agenda. Police thought Sam had killed someone in Dean's building, attacked their father and abducted his brother, the famous baseball star who was convalescing from a near fatal accident that actual sent his real soul to Hell, where an angel of the Lord was trying to rescue him but was apparently not doing such a hot job.

_This is a worse plot than a crappy cult-following show on the CW_, Dean thought to himself ruefully.

"I can still fix this," he insisted.

"It's like a hamster on a wheel," Balthazar grinned in a superior and amused fashion. "Yes, by all means, keep going. You're nearly there."

**oOoOoOo**

The day played out in a fit of research and long stretches of silence. A call to the hospital claiming to be a news organization revealed John Winchester was in critical but stable condition after a severe beating; he was intermittently conscious and working with police to describe his assailants. What those descriptions were the helpful admin weenie who answered the call would not say.

With his so-called parents accounted, Dean sent Sam to the store for basic provisions (food, mostly) as his face was hopefully less recognizable than his famous brother's. Dean said he trusted Sam enough to let him go, hoping he would not run for the police or run afoul of the law during the short hike to the convenience store a mile away. He kept flicking his eyes to the door every 10 seconds while the kid was gone and did not breath easily until he returned. Real brother or not, he couldn't not worry and watch out for the kid.

Once Sam did return, Dean laid out his plan. The spell, which had taken the better part of the morning to gather than needed ingredients in the storeroom (the Men of Letters really needed to pay attention to organization and labeling of boxes!). He then presented the armload of items to Balthazar. The angel mused snidely that the spell was deceptively easy to the point that he doubted it would work.

"It's more apt to relocate your intestines Puerto Rico—while leaving the rest of your body here, of course," the angel offered with a bored yawn.

"You have the mojo to pull it off or not?" Dean asked. "Cas nearly liquefied inside whenever he brought me back without a time machine."

"As would I," Balthazar said, thumbing through the book with a bored expression. "But I'm not going with you—that's why we're using a spell. Amazing."

The angel shook his head and sighed. Dean regarded him thoughtfully and nodded.

"Yeah, some pretty mind-blowing stuff in here," Dean said, then added suspiciously. "It's inventoried, somewhere, by the way. You take so much as pencil and I will have your ass."

"Oh, no," the angel chuckled and tossed the book aside carelessly. "I didn't mean your book and your… pitiful toys, or whatever you think has value in this cavern of a flophouse. No, I meant you. Amazing to me that you are the greatest hope for Heaven. Michael is… well, an ass to tell the truth, and you have that going for you in spades, but you certainly have nothing to offer him other than the strength of your flesh."

Dean glared back, offering the celestial a meaning expression that he hoped conveyed all the anger and dislike he felt for heaven in that moment.

"I mean, other than the molecular make up that would allow you to contain his essence without exploding into a fine mist of colorful spray and chewy bits, you are completely without value," Balthazar continued undeterred. "Are you certain that Castiel is your friend? I know he can be a bit odd, but as a whole, he's one for more substance than… Well, this mediocre nothingness that you exude in such abundance. Perhaps something happened to him in your time that made him less discerning and more accepting of… ignorance… and less."

Dean clenched his jaws and resisted the urge to slash his forearm to draw a blood sigil on the wall to send the bastard back to Heaven. He was reminded, yet again, why he didn't like Balthazar… or any angel he'd met other than Cas… and maybe that guy Joshua a little. The rest though, class A dicks; the only difference between them and demons in Dean's opinion was the color of their eyes.

"Whatever, do you have everything you need?" Dean asked.

"Everything except blood of the damned," Balthazar said. "It needs to be someone with a connection to you. Don't you love how fickle these Zoroastrian spells are? Makes them almost too specific to be viable, which of course, is the point. There is a lesson in there for you, my little mindless warrior. You really shouldn't be doing this."

"You're helping me," Dean pointed out.

"Well, I get so bored just hanging around watching that a chance to change the circumstances even a bit is, frankly, an offer I cannot resist," the angel shrugged. "That it is doomed to failure will be… simply entertaining. I do love a good farce."

"No, I mean, you're helping me," Dean insisted. "As in, go get the damned blood yourself. You can wing your ass to collect it and get back before I even turn around."

"I could, but I won't," Balthazar chuckled. "I took a vessel. I am defying orders. We've got our Captain, as you say, missing in action currently. We're all under tight scrutiny. I am protected from their prying eyes here, but if I step out there and start messing about with a demon, well, I may as well declare war on heaven myself. No, if you want to do this foolish and certain for failure escapade, you need to go get the blood yourself."

"What if I get killed?" Dean asked.

"Oh, an angel is sure to save you," Balthazar shook his head. "Not me of course. As I said, I think you're a dreadful choice in vessel for Michael, but he's never been about quality or finesse. He's about following orders and the word from the top said it had to be you. So, off you go. See you in your dreary cemetery in … uh, 32 hours, don't be late. Actually, make that no more than 31 hours. You have a grave to dig after all, and this potion has an expiration time on it. Very nasty what happens if it ages too much. You, especially, won't like the results."

**oOoOoOo**

The drive to Vermont was long and arduous and quiet. Sam stared out the windows during the 1500 mile drive. They drove in shifts, avoiding the more convenient stops for gas so both could stay off security camera footage. Paying cash also made things difficult as it meant needing to face a store clerk who might have seen the news. Fortunately, none seemed all that interested in Sam's face and Dean kept out of the stores entirely.

When they arrived, just as night was falling in the chilly Vermont town, Dean grumbled.

"No street lights," he said. "No street signs. No friggin' way to tell what direction you're going. I don't know if it's a security measure of just friggin' insanity."

"It's supposed to be quaint," Sam offered, his voice thick from its lack of use.

"Quaint?" Dean scoffed. "It was designed by a drunken farmer, that's pretty obvious. You know why they like to say 'you can't get there from here' in this place because that's how they like it. They want people to be lost so they don't come back."

"Think how they feel," Sam said. "Small towns, narrow roads and then suddenly all these tourists flood in to look at leaves or go skiing. They're just protective of their homes and what they know."

Dean scoffed. He could understand that, to a point, but not labeling roads—hell, not even paving them—was just plain being bastards because they could. Rather than dwell on it further, he steered the car down West Hill Road (gritting his teeth as he recalled how long it took he and Sam to find it for the first time in 2013, because it wasn't on a map, didn't head west, was nowhere near any friggin' hill and was barely a road at all… more like a dry streambed that someone through to build a few houses along).

"Are you going to tell me what we're doing here?" Sam asked.

Upon leaving their bunker, Dean had only told him they needed to go to a specific spot in Vermont, not why, where it was exactly or what would happen once they arrived. Sam was hesitant, but Dean's parting hint the homicidal man who tied him up and locked him in a basement was looking for him got the kid motivated. Dean looked across the seat at him in the failing light and grimaced.

"A graveyard," Dean said and waited for the brutal stare and stutter of breath. Once those arrived, he led into his explanation. "Balthazar needs to do a spell."

"On me?" Sam asked.

Dean rolled his eyes at the selfishness of the remark until he realized that Sam was under the belief that he was only present for his own protection. Dean scolded himself silently for thinking the worst of the guy. He then reminded himself that he needed to learn a new level of patience for this Sam if this was going to work. He was going to have to 'grow up" with him—at least from age 16 onward (he felt his stomach twist at the thought of going back to high school, especially with his current knowledge)—so that meant getting to know this Sam. Hopefully, he could form a better bond with the guy and not make the same mistakes with him as he did his actual brother. Oh, and he would need to start considering him to be his 'actual' brother.

"No, on me," Dean said. "This is about me fixing what apparently I screwed up."

Dean scowled. This was his fault, sort of. He, or the version of him from this time, made a stupid deal,. Granted, he himself had made a deal, but he just didn't seem them as equal. This guy made a deal to get away from arguing parents. Why he didn't just run away, move out on his own or suck it up and deal for two more years until he took off for college or to play in the farm leagues didn't give him a lot of confidence in this Dean's intelligence. At least in his real life, Dean made the deal to save Sam. Yes, it ended him in Hell which to kick-starting the Apocalypse, but at least it had a virtuous start.

"Where are we going?" Sam asked.

"A graveyard," Dean nodded and fell silent again.

They eventually arrived at the ancient boneyard. A brisk fall breeze rustled the dry, dying grass swallowing half of the stones poking through the green sea. The temperature was dropping fast, bringing on a desperate chill. They parked a mile from the cemetery to avoid drawing attention with headlights in an area that should be dark at this hour. As they hiked across the uneven ground carrying shovels, Sam grew more curious.

"What are we burying?" he asked in a whisper.

"No one's alive to hear us, Sam," Dean spoke in a normal tone. "We're not burying anything. We're digging a hole."

"We're robbing a grave?" he gasped and stopped in his tracks.

"What?" Dean asked, spinning to glare at him in the descending night's gloom. "No. We're digging up a grave. I promise you we're leaving everything in the hole. We just need… uh, the air space in the grave."

Sam gaped at him. Whether it was the confusion over their mission or just the thought of digging up a grave, Dean did not know. He found it humorus to see the look on his brother's face, as if grave digging was in anyway not a typical way to spend their evenings. The last the activity caused Sam to gulp so dramatically, he'd been 11.

After starting to walk again, Sam spoke. His voice was shaky and still quiet, but he was no longer sounding like he was objecting.

"Uh, so what grave are we looking for?" Sam asked peering carefully at the stones as they passed them.

He stooping and skulking along as if he could hide his bulk more in the pitch black by seeming shorter.

Dean rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"It's in the back here somewhere," Dean gestured. "I didn't pay much attention the last time. Just look for a cross-shaped stone with the family name Danaa on it. Reverend's grave was a little white pillow stone to the left of that one. It's beside big marker for someone named A. Pester. There was a poem on that one stone, like an open letter that starts with 'Dear Hart' and goes on about… I don't remember what exactly, just look for those, okay?"

Sam nodded and focused his eyes on the ground. As they drew nearer to the far corner, he snagged Dean's arm and pointed to the markers in question. Dean nodded and swept his foot side to side in the tall grass until his heel hit the nearly disintegrated stone for the vengeful reverend. Dean dropped his bag and lifted his shovel. He locked eyes with Sam and nodded.

"Hey Dean," Sam asked hesitantly as they began lifting the sod to the side. "When is the angel showing up?"

"Whenever he feels like it," Dean replied, his arms on fire from the limited exertion.

He felt his brow grow hot and rivulets of sweat streaking down his neck and back. He dragged his arm across his forehead, to keep the drops from falling into his eyes. He stripped off his jacket and overshirt as his breath started to come in hitches.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked, halting in his digging. "You don't look so good."

"Well, that's pretty much how I feel, so let's just keep going," Dean replied. "Seriously, Sam. Keep digging. We need to have this done by the time our asshole wingman arrives."

"Are you sure he will?" Sam asked.

Dean paused, feeling the searing pain in his side as again the lightheaded feeling like he was drifting away filled his skull. He shook his head fiercely and forced a deep, slow breath into his protesting lungs.

"No, but I'm operating on… faith here," Dean said angrily.

"Okay, well, let's say he does come," Sam said, returning to his digging. "He said something about you needing to get… blood."

"Right," Dean grimaced. "Once we're to the bottom here, I've got a, uh, call to make."

**oOoOoOo**

* * *

**A/N:** One more chapter to go. Hope you are ready for the finale. I'll be posting it within the next week. Thanks again for reading.


	14. Chapter 14

Title: The Price of Happiness (Chapter 14)

Notes: Aw, hell, I couldn't leave you guys waiting another week. Here's the finale. Hope you enjoyed the story. Thanks again for reading and thanks to those of you who posted reviews. Much appreciated.

* * *

**oOoOoOo**

The night pressed in harder on the graveyard and Dean stood over a copper bowl and dropped a lit match into it. The flame flashed quickly then died as a definite crack filled the air. A moment later, a lithe blond wearing tight clothing and well-heeled boots stood in the sodden spot in the graveyard, a sloppy but passable devil's trap spray painted onto the ground beneath her.

"Meg," Sam gasped as he stumbled backward and came to rest on a headstone.

"Yeah, your demon lover's dropping in for a little chat," Dean said over his shoulder as he turned to face the demon.

A moment later, the rustle of wings sounded and Balthazar appeared to Sam's left. The younger Winchester blanched with shock and surprise at all the party crashers. He locked eyes with his brother for a moment who merely shrugged and focused his attention on their female guest.

"I need to bleed you, bitch," he said without preamble.

"Why Dean, you do say the most charming things," she remarked.

"I've got a proposition for you," he continued. "One that's gonna save your life and the life of your boss."

"My boss?" she asked skeptically and peered around him to Sam, who stared back at her with wide and disbelieving eyes. "Hey there honey. Miss me?"

Dean followed her gaze and shook his head.

"You and me, we are having a chat about appropriate bed mates once this is over," Dean growled then looked back at the demon. "He's off limits to you right now. We're here to talk about the big plan, you and the star of your little I Love Lucy play you're running here: Satan—Sam's would-be hitch hiker. You and me, we need to work together or you can't jump start the apocalypse."

Meg's eyes flashed black quickly and she hissed with uncertainty as Dean grinned in her direction.

"What?" she snarled.

The interest in her voice, the harsh breathy sound to her words said he was hitting the right spots with her. He planned on convincing her and lying the best way he knew: by telling mostly the truth. He wouldn't tell her the whole thing got called off in his timeline. He wouldn't tell her it failed and Lucifer was back in his box. He also wouldn't tell her that last time he saw Meg was just before he was thrown into Purgatory. From what Sam explained, Crowley had taken her back to demon detention. What he was doing to her was unknown. Nor did Dean especially care. Sure, she had been useful in the recent past, but she'd possessed his brother once and tried to get Dean to kill him; she also killed Caleb and Pastor Jim. Things like that soured him on her no matter what side she was on during any given week.

"Yeah, you and Lilith and Ruby, all the Lucifer groupies, yeah I know your whole plan," Dean revealed. "My wingman over there is in the know."

"You know all this and somehow you think that you and I are on the same side?" she shook her head and spoke coyly. "Call me the Doubting Thomas here, but I thought you were going to dirty dance with Michael."

Some thick and ominous clouds skidded across the sky, swallowing the moon and light further. The deeper darkness sent a strong and penetrating chill down Dean's neck that started to seep into his chest and made his heart cringe.

"Things got in the way so that can't happen as things stand," he said strategically. She looked at him suspiciously. He threw in the one name that he figured would move her to his side of the table. "Crowley."

Again, her eyes went black. Her expression was terrifying. The air crackled with a dark and malevolent energy.

"Dean?" Sam asked hesitantly from his safe distance, holding out his flask of holy water defensively.

"Parlor tricks only, Sam," he assured his brother. "She's suck at the moment and can't do more than give you the tinglies. Enjoy as you seem to be into that."

He turned his eyes again on the trapped demon and folded his arms. He then nodded to Meg.

"Crowley?" she snarled. "He's a bottom feeding crossroads demon."

"Was a bottom feeding crossroads demon," Dean answered, walking around the protective circle, swinging wheedling his hunting knife. "He's about to become the King of Hell because your side messed up; he's in a position to throw your Daddy's ass back in his cage—got one of the horseman, Death himself, all lined up to collaborate on the project, too."

She repeated Crowley's title and her eyes went inky black again. Dean's mention of the horseman shook her. She apparently feared that power nearly as much as she hated Crowley's existence. Her eyes rolled back to their proper pigment, but her expression said all Dean needed to hear: She was listening more and doubting less.

"Well, then give me one good reason why I should help you rather than kill you," she sneered.

Dean heard Sam stutter on his breath at the threat. Whether he was also coming to terms that the black-eyed skank in front of them shared his bed just a few short days earlier was a question, but Dean didn't want to probe into it. Once this negotiation was over, that would all be a memory—a memory only Dean held and he would do his utmost to purge it.

"Killing me is a bad idea," he said and started to weave the story he spent the full 24 hours driving to Vermont concocting. "You'll be charcoal before it happens, and you know it. Got the God Squad watching my six. The Limey mook over there is quicker on the draw than you. Besides, you need me in Hell eventually to get this whole thing started."

"So let's make a deal, baby," she grinned predatorily.

"You're not a crossroads demon," Dean noted with simple shrug. "That's Crowley's domain at the moment. He's clued in by now to what's up. That's why the deal I made when I was 16 didn't take. See, Crowley wants me up here. His order: No crossroads deals for me."

"That's not how it goes," she shook her head vigorously. "You already…"

"Contract's tied up in litigation, I guess," Dean shrugged, rolling out the rest of his cover story. "I seem to be standing here trying to offer you a way to get your side back on track and help me do the same without Crowley getting in the way. I'm not jonesing for the end of the world to start, but Crowley is going to kill someone I care about so I need your help to stop that. In the long run, you need me to do this spell. That's why we're partners." His lie rolled off his tongue so smoothly even he nearly believed it. Meg looked intrigued and willing. "Hey, I don't like it any more than you do—less, even. It's a really long story, but Crowley's gearing up to pop the cork on Purgatory and spring the Leviathan. Future's been seen and confirmed—my angel buddy could tell you. He won't because you are an abomination, and he'd like to fry your ass instead, so you're stuck hearing it from me. Trust me, those chompers will eat all of us, your kind and mine, out of existence. The angels, too, by the way so your daddy's gonna want you to support this plan. Now, you and me, tonight, we need to work together to stop Crowley."

Meg scoffed and glared at him. His lack of sympathy and empathy were unsurprising but oddly callous for someone asking her for a favor.

"Sister, as of the now, things are looking like your boss is never going to join the prize fight," Dean said in a calculating tone. "He stays in his kennel, and you're going to be an hor d'oeuvres in a week. So, what say you and I help each other out here so we can avoid being courses on a menu?"

"You're here to save me and help Lucifer?" she asked doubtfully.

"No," he replied flatly and shook his head, slapping his knife on his thigh agitated as the discussion continued.

He did not expect it to go smoothly or quickly, but he also did not expect the lightheaded feeling in his skull to crash over him like a tidal wave. He did not expect his heart to flutter and feel like it was shivering. Dean swallowed hard and tried to control his breathing while doing his best not to fall over during their chat.

"It's just that to do what I need to do to help myself has the disgusting and screwed up benefit of saving you in the process," he explained. "It also helps your douchebag of a supreme being with daddy issues, which sucks more than I can say right now, but compromise, what are you gonna do, right? So, here's the deal, I need your blood to take do this spell. The directions are pretty fussy. I need to actually draw it, with your permission and assistance, which means you need to play nice with me when I step into this lovely little detention spot."

"Meaning I can slit your throat and end your plans right now," Meg smiled. She licked her tongue eagerly across her teeth then offered him a feral grin.

"You could try," Dean challenged. "Look, I'm doing this to help myself, but it helps you, too, unfortunately. Honestly, that pisses me off, but I've done worse things. Way… way worse things. This is… I can stomach this because it is strictly a vendetta thing against Crowley. You and I just need to do one thing together: Take Crowley off the board so we can… play our roles."

Thoughts of Hell flash in his mind in the same instant that he heard Gabriel barking those same words at him. He could see Zachariah smirking at him, forcing Sam to suffer, hurting Adam as well. It was like watching his life on rewind at 10 times the speed. He clenched his jaw tight and leveled his eyes back at her.

"What do I get out of it other than a severe case of anemia?" she asked folding her arms and cocking her hip out.

"How 'bout I don't exorcise you right now?" Dean asked darkly. Meg snorted her amusement as she raked him with her eyes hungrily as she prowled the devil's trap. Dean swallowed his gorge at her touch and clenched his jaw as he offered another option. "I can sweeten the pot. I will tell you precisely when you can make your move to kill Crowley so that it will work. It'll be a 100 percent guarantee of success. He won't suspect it's coming. The angels have foreseen it."

"A little too iffy, sunshine," she shook her head.

"Oh, trust me, sweetheart," Dean vowed. "You and me, we get him in a Devil's Trap at some point down the road. I'll let you kill him rather than taking a shot at it myself. Trust me, after ganking Crowley, I will be indebted to you. Believe in that. I feel dirty about it, but again, I've made my peace with it because I've done worse."

Meg looked back at him, seeing the fury and the sincerity in his eyes. Humans were weak and pathetic creatures, so easily manipulated and so easily deciphered, she felt. The face staring back at her was muddled for certain, but there was so much truth radiating from his expressive eyes that she smiled. She was going to enjoy peeling the skin off his face someday, but killing Crowley just made her nether regions quiver and resonate with such joy she couldn't refuse this chance.

"And all you need from me is some on this girl's blood?" she asked with a pleased grin.

"Yeah," he said. "I need it for this spell."

"Why did any of this happen at all?" she asked. "I mean, how did this whole mess of you showing up here with all this knowledge start?"

"It's an accident, apparently," Dean shrugged and grimaced painfully. "Story of my life, okay? Someone messes with one thing and it looks like a windfall then in the next breath a Winchester gets it in the jewels. Near as me and my co-pilot for this spell figure, someone else tried the spell and something went wrong. I don't know what, solar flares or sequins on CeeLo Green's jacket got in the way, whatever. The point is, at the exact moment the spell was cast, I was in a celestial, terrestrial and spiritual void, which evidently is the equivalent of soul Kevlar for this spell."

Meg looked at him doubtfully and scoffed as she folded her arms and shook her head.

"You managed to be falling through the air of an open grave belonging to a vengeful spirit at the precise moment someone cast a blood spell over you?" she asked in disbelief.

"You figured that out quick," Dean observed stunned.

"Dark magic 101, you mental moron," she rolled her eyes. "Unholy ground—neither celestial nor terrestrial nor spiritual. You sure you're a hunter, and we work together? You seem a little too stupid for me not to have killed you yet."

"Well, you've tried," Dean offered smugly. "Failed—miserably, each time. But hey, don't lose faith, bitch, there's always tomorrow."

He grinned, knowing that if this spell worked, there wouldn't precisely be a tomorrow for her, but Meg's well-being and happiness would never be on any list of Dean's, unless it was a list of things to annihilate.

"So you were in the safety zone when this whammy hit so you got thrown into a DeLoran," Meg nodded. "So you're going back to that place and time? What assurance do I have that you're not going back further to try and stop what's going on right now?"

"The way I see it, you've got no other choice," Dean said. "I can make this deal with you and we work together so you get something out of it. Or, I exorcise your ass, send you back to the minor leagues in Hell and find another demon get what I need anyway."

He hoped the lie would continue to roll off his tongue convincingly. He wasn't sure he could hang around long enough to find another demon, strike up the requisite relationship with the hell bitch as required by the spell, then bleed it for the last ingredient.

"This way, it works out for both of us," Dean shrugged. "Look, either help me now or watch all your big plans to take over the world fall apart. A hunter is coming for Sam, a good one, like… one of the best. That's trouble for you because he'll kill Sam, salt and burn him and then where will your plan be? Screwed seven ways to Sunday, right? Well, because the universe likes friggin' irony, I also I can't have that happen because Sam being dead is not an option for me—ever. So, you and me, we're partners—enemy of my enemy and all that crap."

Meg continued to look at him with a pensive expression. She looked at the open grave and the smoking crucible beside it. Balthazar gave her a rakish look that was far from angelic and threw in an equally lecherous wink.

"He's an angel and will likely burn me to charcoal as soon as you're done," Meg noted. "Why should I trust you?"

"You probably shouldn't, but you don't have much of a choice," Dean shrugged. "Grow a pair, Meg. Don't worry about the wingman. Want to know a secret: Angels are dicks. This one only works on commission. and I've got nothing to give him so he's not smoking your ass for free. Let's be honest: You and me, we're still going to try to kill each other as soon this spell takes and we nail Crowley. Once the smoke clears, it'll be back to our little game of cutthroat: demons and winged dickheads against the good guys. The yin and yang of the universe that you both are trying to destroy and that I'm trying to save."

Dean didn't want to overstate his case too much. If she started asking too many questions, she might suspect Michael got his ass kicked by his little brother and just leave Dean without helping. If she was certain Lucifer won the prize fight, where would her incentive been then to help Dean? No, he had to play it cagey and let her hatred of Crowley be the focus of this. Dean shook his head at this latest twist: The evil bastard he wanted dead more than any other at that moment was the one who was proving the most helpful in getting a demon to join forces with him to save his brother and (possibly) the world.

_The things I do for my family… _.

"You want me to beg, I'll do it," Dean insisted.

"You'll also need to be in the void created by unholy ground when we cast the spell or it won't work," Meg said. "If you're not, you might be sent back, but you won't have your memory."

"That hole in the ground there is where this whole fiasco started," Dean nodded to the rectangular abyss.

"You swear to me on the life of your parents that what you're telling me is the truth?" Meg asked viciously. "You swear to me that we're going to spring Lucifer from the cage? That the apocalypse will start?"

"As God as my witness, all 66 seals will be broken—Lilith being the final one," Dean nodded. His vision grew cloudy. "Sammy is gonna swat her like a bug in the convent with Ruby egging him on the whole way. The bitch."

Meg blinked. No one else knew about Ruby or Lilith having a role in this plan. Meg herself didn't know the whole plan. She just knew that Azazel needed her to stick close to the younger Winchester and report in on him while keeping him mildly estranged from his family. Dean, however, spoke with such confidence that she wondered if the angel was in fact telling him all the secret squirrel details.

"And you and me, we're in league against Crowley?" she asked.

"Yes," Dean swore though his voice was slow and thick. "Look at me. I'm not lying about this. I hate that bastard and want him dead. I would love to watch you turn him inside out just like Alastair taught you."

There was a dangerous and dark look in his eyes that matched the vicious edge to his voice. Meg nodded in return. He then stepped into the circle with his knife and cup in hand.

"I believe you," she said then grasped his hand around the hilt of the knife and plunged it into her forearm.

She turned her wrist downward toward the chalice in Dean's grip, spraying the blood into the receptacle. She remained in the body as it grew weaker and paler. As the skin of Meg Masters turned sickly, ashen gray, her knees wobbled slightly. Her hand slipped from Dean's wrist as she dropped to the ground, the demon insider her smoking out but remaining trapped in the protective circle, bounding off the invisible walls like a fish swimming frantically in a too small bowl. Leaving her there to panic and (hopefully suffer) brought a smile to his lips.

Dean approached Balthazar, his hand nearly slipping from the cup. The hot, slick blood making his grip tenuous as he staggered out of the devil's trap. His hands were covered with the wet, coppery smelling liquid as he handed the chalice to Balthazar.

"You understand that I am an angel, with a sworn duty to humanity," he said, standing over the smoking concoction, holding the sloshing red cup high over his head. The crucible began to boil.

"Your neck is more important than your duty," Dean said, a seething stitch in his chest as pain radiated through him.

"It is," he nodded solemnly and began speaking in Latin as he poured the blood into the mixture and the air began to vibrate.

Dean listened carefully but snapped is head to the side as the words in the angel's incantation were not precisely those he recalled from the spell. He took an aggressive step forward but found himself first held in place then next shoved backward. His heels rocked dangerously backward on the lip of the grave. Dean pushed against the invisible wall of force but could gain no ground. He grunted and struggled, seething with anger.

"I am an Angel of the Lord," Balthazar in a rote monotone. "I've been listening to you and your fanciful lies and I cannot abide by this. You are right about me. I am an opportunist, which means I do nothing to bring myself onto the radar unless it benefits me. This does not. Angels are here among you to be the instruments of destiny. You are not God, Dean Winchester, and allowing you to manipulate the lives of so many is not your destiny."

Dean snarled a protest but was suddenly thrown backward as the angel flicked his wrist in a dismissing fashion. Dean felt his heart explode in his chest and was certain his eyes had jettisoned from their sockets in the same instant. A fiery and draining feeling tore through his veins as he felt himself falling downward endlessly into nothingness and cold. He was crushed by the darkness and swallowed whole by the ground. His final, fleeting and terrified thought as he plunged into the void, was that he was headed again for Hell.

**oOoOoOo**

With a suddenness that crushed the remaining breath from his lungs, he hit the ground. The ringing in his ears was deafening and made them physically itch. He dragged an unwilling and painfully sloppy breath into his throat then promptly gagged on it.

His back ached, his shoulders felt like they had been struck with a crowbar and his head was pounding like there was a jackhammer trying to open it. His eyes were not reporting any sights at all for several moments. There was an absence of light that he assumed was simple darkness rather than feared blindness. Eventually, he could feel water trickling down his neck and under his collar. The damp and cold kiss of the ground began to seep into his clothing along with a smell he recognized but could not immediately place for several seconds. As he concentrated on it, rather than the pain of breathing, it came to him: Butane.

His stomach knotted at the thought then relaxed. Hell, he recalled, did not smell like lighter fluid. It smelled of sulfur. This place, wherever it was, was rank for certain, but it smelled more old and moldy than like rotten eggs.

As he tried to assess his condition and location, a voice called out to him from somewhere above.

"Dean?" Sam croaked, his face coming into sharper focus somewhere on what appeared to be a ledge more than an arm's reach above Dean.

"Sam?" he replied in a raspy voice slowly easing himself up from what appeared to be a large, sunken puddle that mingled ground water with accelerant.

His eyes began to focus and he spied the sky above. It was inky dark and the ground around him, which stretched upward toward the heavens. The air was cold and still. A slight mist hung to the ground around Sam's looming face.

"Yeah, man," his brother coughed and reached a long arm over the edge of the sodden grave bed. His lank, damp, long locks of hair hung to his chin. "Are you okay?"

"What the hell happened?" Dean struggled to his feet, a sharp pain in his shoulders, his head throbbing as his breath continued to hitch. "Wait, first, how old are you?"

"So, joking, great," Sam began in a perturbed voice. "Sorry, I was concerned."

"I'm not joking," Dean snapped. "Answer the friggin' question, Sam!"

Dean's eyes, although having a hard time focusing on any one spot for long as the world grew blurry and tilted at odd angles every few seconds, were reporting to him that the Sam before him was not the one he was expecting. The hair was too long. The eyes were too knowing and sad. His pallor was sickly and his voice worried but not terrified. From the moment Dean had realized he was laying at the bottom of the wet grave bed again, he suspected this outcome. The difficult part was determining how he felt about it.

"I'll be 30 in a few weeks," Sam replied, stifling a rattling cough in his chest. "Why are you asking me something you know the answer to already? Are you okay?"

"Let me think about that one," Dean grumbled, peaking his head above ground to the same lumpy landscape on the same chilly raw night that he departed without warning nearly two weeks earlier. "Is it still Saturday, and are we still in Vermont?"

"Yeah, of course," Sam coughed again, grabbing onto Dean's shoulder and hauling him out of the soggy grave. "We're right where we were two minutes ago when you were bitching about the weather."

"And you're not creeped out because we're in a graveyard, that we know angels and crap like that?" he groaned.

"What?" Sam offered him a puzzled face. "Creeped out by a graveyard? Not since I was 10 and angels? Dean, what's going on? I know you're worried about lately Cas, but…"

"So that must mean it's 2013 again," Dean grumbled and buried his face in his hands. "Friggin' awesome."

"Again?" Sam questioned, and shone a small flashlight in his brother's face only to have it batted away quickly. He turned it instead to the back of Dean's head to examine him. "Man, did you hit your head? Wow. Crap, you did. You're bleeding pretty good."

Dean felt Sam's behemoth palm suddenly pressing against the side of his head as he fumbled with his coat to strip it off. It took Dean a moment to realize Sam was stripping off his outer shirt and pressing it to some gash in his head to stop the blood flow. Dean struggled away, his stomach flipping and rolling as he did so. He got to his feet and waited for his vision to level out.

"I'm fine," Dean grumbled.

"Right, Reverend Haynes grabbed you and threw you so hard your head split open, and you weren't sure what year it was, but you're fine," Sam recapped, wincing in sympathy as he looked at the cut in the darkness.

"He did?" Dean asked, pulling away from Sam's ministrations.

"Yeah," Sam explained. "I felt it get cold and then you yelped and went flying. That cut doesn't look too big, but you're bleeding enough that you'll need stitches. Might have a concussion, too."

Dean looked around. The vile and thick mist still hung on the air. His salt gun was on the ground where he dropped it. Sam looked back at him with a confused and weary expression. Dean shook his head then pulled back the collar of his T-shirt. Even in the dark night, he could see the faint outline of the tattoo on his chest. He quickly snatched at Sam's collar, pulling it downward over his brother's protests.

"What are you doing?" Sam demanded, swatting Dean's hand aside. "Okay, I know you hit your head and it's been a long time since you 'scored one for the home team,' but I am not here to give you a peep show, dude."

Dean shook his head and did not explain. He was satisfied Sam's tattoo was fully healed and therefore and been in place for years. He next rubbed his side probingly and no longer felt the large surgical scar.

"And now you're giving yourself a breast exam?" Sam wondered with a mystified expression. "Dean, what the hell is going on?"

"Son of a bitch," Dean spat and kicked a nearby headstone, sending a bolt of pain up his leg that made him swear even more loudly.

"Hey, knock it off," Sam warned in a quieter tone. "We don't need to attract any attention. Now, are you okay or not?"

"Friggin' fantastic," he groused and shook some mud from his clothing. "Back in 2013. Awesome. Bastard screwed me over, screwed us over. Perfect." He turned his head toward the dark, cloud-filled sky and shouted his anger. "Serves you right being dead you arrogant sanctimonious prick! Instrument of destiny my ass."

Sam winced at his brother's elevated decibels and shook his head.

"Okay, hey, keep your voice down," Sam counseled, placing a steadying and calming hand on Dean's shoulder. "What are you talking about, man? Who is dead? The reverend? Isn't he the reason we're here?"

Dean shook his head. He looked back down into the grave with the bone fragments and ring of salt around them. He looked back to Sam for a clue that he had any idea something might have happened. From his blank expression, it appeared the answer was a big, fat, sucking no.

"When I realized the reverend was trying to stop us, I crawled over to the bag and began flinging salt everywhere," Sam shrugged. "I thought you'd have lit the bones, but when I turned around I couldn't see you so I figured you fell in the hole. I called your name a few times before you answered. Man, I thought you were hurt."

"I'm fine," Dean scowled and reached into his pocket for a book of matches. "You okay? You were puking up a lung before—that's what got me distracted."

"I'm okay," Sam shook his head and stifled another cough. "Just… damp air, that's all. You're right. Maple syrup or not, Vermont kind of sucks this time of year."

Dean nodded, accepting the statement without question as his mind was on other things. He stripped one match off the pack and used it to light the whole book. With a rueful shake of his head, he dropped the flame into the grave and watched as the accelerant at the bottom ignited quickly. The sound of hissing followed and suddenly some of the oppressive cold hanging on the air lifted. Whether that was due to the fire burning below their feet or the death of the malevolent spirit he had just dispatched, he didn't know. Nor did he care. What was certain was that his ass was soaking wet with lighter fluid and grave water, which meant he was not leaving Vermont that night. They would be returning to their crap motel so he could shower and crash for a few hours before hitting the road.

"Grab a shovel, Sammy," Dean said listlessly as the flames died down. "I've had a long friggin' day."

**oOoOoOo**

"You think it was real?" Sam asked, staring back at his brother with wide eyes.

His own recent brush with a time and place out of phase with his own life was fresh in his mind. He had held that experience back from Dean out of a sense of worry and fear what the revelation would do to his brother. Making Dean ache for the things he could have had but lost was not a cruelty Sam wanted to visit upon the man who had sacrificed so much to care for him. He also feared Dean would hear the tale and fear the first trial had loosened the screws in Sam's mind…again.

Dean, however, imparted his tale after they returned to their motel room. Leaving Vermont that night was ill advised considering their beaten up and mentally exhausted conditions. Laying low for a few more hours and getting in showers was a better plan. Having done that and thrown their dirt soaked clothing into bags to be washed at the next laundromat they found, Sam set about putting few stitches into Dean's scalp to stop the bleeding. While assessing whether he had a mild or slightly more than mild concussion, Dean decided to tell his brother what happened. He wasn't sure he should, but he did it anyway.

Sam's first offered theory was that it was all Dean's imagination following a bump on his head from getting thrown into a gravestone and then tossed into the grave. On the surface, that explanation seemed reasonable. Dean's counter argument that reasonable and logical weren't part of their normal MO didn't sway Sam initially. So Dean grabbed the laptop and surfed for a few moments until he found what he was looking for.

Dean dug up an old news article on the town of Eudora, Kansas. In the fall of 2005, a young girl named Hailey Chilton, whose father died in Iraq, was killed in her family home. Originally, police arrested the mother as she was the only one with access to the child, but a coroner's report showed the injuries were too extensive to have been inflicted by the small, frail woman. An unknown intruder was blamed. The child died of the multiple blunt force trauma injuries. The home then mysterious burned a two months later, wiping out all of Althea Chilton's belongings. Dean suspect a hunter's involvement but couldn't be sure.

"And you never heard about the case from Bobby or Dad or anyone?" Sam asked. Dean confidently and sorrowfully shook his head. "So… okay… Well… Um… Are you alright?"

"Am I alright?" Dean blinked.

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "You just found out that someone you saved didn't actually get saved. That tends to put you in a… mood, like the downward spiral, I-need-to-punish-myself-and-go-kamikaze-on-somethi ng-to-make-it hurt-less sort of mood."

Dean scowled and rolled his eyes.

"I don't get moods, Sam," Dean argued. "That's your thing. You brood; you whine; you stew… Hell, you ovulate for all I know. Me? I get pissed. I get impatient. I get even when I can."

Sam shook his head and waved off the impending argument. Dean didn't like admitting he had feelings on a good day, or night as the case may be. This, certainly was neither.

"So you saw Mom and Dad?" Sam asked carefully, going over the details his brother offered.

Dean nodded. He had explained as much as he felt he should, but not everything. He held back the part about Bobby, mostly because of him being a homicidal maniac. Sam went the full Menendez on the old hunter when he was without his soul; Dean figured Bobby never getting to have the boys in his life to give him balance was the same thing (hard to forgive but just as hard to lay blame) so he was giving the guy a pass by neglecting to mention his involvement.

He also held back some of the more innocent details. Some of the bits, like getting made blueberry pancakes and things like that, seemed cruel to impart, although Dean suspected those were the things he would remember most (and would pain him the most). It simply wasn't fair. Sam never knew their mother. Adding more details that he would never experience seemed like inflicting torture on him, and Dean couldn't purposefully cause his brother that kind of pain. It was his job to protect his little brother, to save him from as many hurts as the world might try to lay down on him, so Dean surely wasn't going to add to the pile.

Sam sat on the bed, absorbing the details his brother imparted. He was skeptical until the news articles about the Chilton's panned out. His doubts grew out mostly of the whole disclosure of the tale. Dean gave up the story too readily. Sam was more used to his brother denying things and holding them in, but it was as if he could no longer stomach any lies, not even his own—not even those he told in an effort to protect his younger brother.

Next, part of Sam just wanted to doubt the truth of it. Not that he did not think such a thing, traveling to time with a different fate for their family, could happen. He'd experience something similar himself recently. Even without that, he certainly knew it could happen with the right kind (or more accurately wrong kind) of magic. He even knew the spell Dean referenced. Sam had seen it in the library back at their compound. He paid it little attention though because Sam knew reality jumping and time traveling were never the answer (something reaffirmed to him recently). It seemed that no matter what they did, nothing ever really changed. The only aspect of Dean's story other than the Chilton's that made Sam lean toward it being the truth rather than the delirious thoughts from a concussion was Dean's role in it. There was no way his brother's twisted and self-loathing mind would afford him the fantasy of a near-perfect life where he was happy and loved with everything he wanted and a desire to keep it that way. It figured that it would take Dean's Herculean savior/persecution complex to wreck his own paradise—a good life was something only Dean didn't think he deserved.

"So Mom and Dad were divorced, but still had a thing going on?" Sam inquired. Dean nodded and smirked. "That's a little… odd and kind of… I mean, I know they were adults but… I kind of don't want to think about them… you know….."

"You're telling me," Dean shook with the memory. "I think he might have been grabbing her ass in the kitchen once when I walked in on them talking."

"Okay, wow, I did not need that visual," Sam offered with a shudder.

"Dude, she used the terms _hook up_ and _friends with benefits_, so if I gotta live with that in my head so do you," Dean scoffed. "Oh, and get this, the old man was driving a friggin' chick car—a sporty Chrysler—because Mom liked it. Can you believe that? She divorces the guy, takes his house, constantly busts his balls over us and apparently still got to call the shots on what cars he drove. See, that is why marriage is a bad idea all around."

Sam shook his head but did not bother to point out to his brother he was missing the point of marriage or to note that he had just done the unthinkable in Dean's universe: criticize Mary Winchester. Sam wondered briefly if this outing to elsewhere would taint their mother's memory in Dean's mind, but he pushed that thought aside quickly. In spite of the recent encounter, Sam was certain nothing could mar his brother's devotion to his memory of the woman. Sam missed her, ached to know her actually, but his love of their mother was more fantasy. He had no independent memories of Mary Winchester from his own childhood. It was his brother's beloved memories of her, the ones Dean was willing to share, that made her real to Sam. For Dean, however, their mother was locked in his broken and unhealing heart with all his precious memories of her piled around her, protectively cocooning her from any further harm. After all, there was only one photo ever in Dean's wallet; the only picture he placed in his room at their hidden compound: One of he and his mother. Sam knew there wasn't a force, natural or supernatural, that could ever shake Dean's love of her.

"And I was going to law school, you had a degree in…?" Sam continued fishing for details.

"Yeah, a friggin' college degree, in mechanical engineering," Dean scoffed, pressing an ice pack to the wound on his head. "Whatever the hell that is."

Sam grinned, finding it yet another quirk of his brother's denial of his intelligence that in this other reality he had gravitated to a field Sam was certain Dean would excel in here if given the chance. Dean thought Sam was just overstating things in a pep talk when he called his brother a genius, but he wasn't. Sam truly believed it. Dean had never focused on school because of their circumstances, not because of any defect or infirmity of his mind.

"It's building an EMF meter out of a broken Walkman," Sam explained, offering an expression that said he did not find Dean's degree as farfetched as his older brother did. "And Meg and Balthazar saved you? I mean, sent you back. Why?"

"Well, he sent me back here instead of back further to fix… whatever," Dean shrugged, rubbing his temples as he began typing on the laptop again. "Actually, the more I think about it, he probably did it to screw me—I mean, a dick is a dick, right? As for how this whole fiasco started, he thought only an angel could do it, cast the original spell that accidentally sent me back in the first place, He figured that since it'll seem like it didn't work whoever tried it is unlikely to try again."

"I suppose, but who in Heaven have you pissed off that much recently?" Sam wondered.

"I think the fact you and I still exist is enough motivation for the flying ass monkeys on the god squad, don't you?" Dean scowled. Sam nodded. "As for Meg… well, she helped because I lied to her. A little. We bonded over our mutual hate of Crowley. At the end, I stuck her with a knife in the throat to get her blood for the spell, so win-win."

Sam rolled his eyes. Dean did not relish carnage, but he did enjoy harming demons when he could. He might have felt worse for the possessed victim, but they had already killed Meg's first hostage. In his heart, Sam know that, given the chance in the altered timeline, Dean would have saved her if he could.

"So your plan was really to stay?" Sam asked. He could see the haunted look on Dean's face. "You'd have walked away from this life, I mean us as we are, for that? You'd rather have lived that life?"

"I thought so," Dean said simply. "It was better for both of us. We weren't real close, but… We got along well enough. You were going to school and going to be a regular kind of person. I was set with my… job, so I was going to make sure you were safe and happy until things started to go south."

"You were going to take care of me, still?" Sam asked and shook his head in a frustrated way. "Who was going to take care of you?"

Dean paused. To him, the answer should have been obvious: Himself. No one took care of Dean. However, having been there, there was another possible answer: his mother. For once in his life, he would have had someone in his corner, fully, 100 percent and willing to do anything at all, go to any length, to watch out for him and watch over him. John certainly would have been there for him as well, but Mary was more focused on the parenting role. She probably would have mothered him to death, or into fleeing from her eventually, but he would have come back to her (dragging along a grandchild and acceptable wife if he knew what was good for him as an act of contrition). Forgiveness for going too far was something Dean was familiar with. He looked up at his brother, who was trying and failing to read his thoughts. Dean felt a twinge of pain in his chest that had nothing to do with the bruised ribs he was sporting.

"I didn't need any help," Dean shook his head. "Life was… good."

He left much of his personal details out of the story as well. He'd told Sam about their educational accomplishments and their parents. He told him even about the family movie and Mary's boxes o'childhood crap gifts that she treasured, but he'd left out any mention of the Cubs or his career. Dean didn't know why, but that was something he wanted to hang onto, something just for him. It was grandiose and exciting and childish. Yes, it was a little boy's dream, and Dean wanted to keep it that.

Sam paused at his brother's pronouncement that he didn't need someone to watch over him. He understood that. Dean was always going to be Dean. Family mattered more than he did in Dean's view. Having them all back was something Sam wanted too, but probably not as much as Dean wanted it and needed it. He watched his brother carefully, not bothering to hide his interest, although Dean was doing his best to pretend he didn't notice. Instead, Dean continued to look at the computer screen then checked his voicemail and frowned. Sam offered him a raised eyebrow inquiry as he hung up.

"Kevin's been fed and watered for another week," Dean answered, looking up then gesturing to his phone. "Message from Garth. Also got a call from someone I used to know who needs a favor—one of our kinds of favors."

"Someone you used to know?" Sam asked, not surprised his brother was changing the subject from his foray into what might have been into business as usual. "Who do you still know who isn't dead? Or is a ghost calling you?"

"No, a cop," Dean said then shrugged. "He thinks he's got a situation for us. He sort of knows what we do—the old, routine salt and burn stuff. He helped me out with a thing while you were at college. He's… uh…. got a problem. Take us about six hours, not including the ferry ride."

"Ferry?" Sam asked.

Sam's chest felt like it was slashed to ribbons from the inside and ferries meant water which meant more moisture, yet six hours from where they were could only mean an ocean-side location. Early spring on the Atlantic coast, the north Atlantic at that, didn't mean warmth, but there was something appealing about seaside air. Like tears for him and sweat for Dean, the healing powers of salt water were not to be denied.

"I'm game if you are," Sam shrugged. "Just let me do the driving. I'm pretty sure you're still seeing double."

Dean shook his head. Sammy the worrywart. He was the one being tested by trials created by the most merciless bastard of them all, God, and he was worried that his brother got his bell rung ever so slightly. Dean scoffed but did not fight the pronouncement. He typed a few more things into the search engine then looked squarely at his brother.

"Fine, but once that job is done, if Kevin doesn't have any news for us on the second trial, I've got another case lined up for us," Dean said assuredly.

"All ready?" Sam blinked. "You just picked up one the phone two minutes ago. Where'd this next one come from?"

"Old case," Dean said. "I'm a little surprised I never thought to look into it before now. I mean, it's kind of huge. If we deal with it, thousands of people will be spared anguish and heartbreak."

Sam looked at his brother questioningly as he turned the computer screen to face it. The search engine had pulled up the homepage for the Chicago Cubs.

"I don't understand," Sam shrugged. "What's the deal with Wrigley Field?"

"The Chicago Cubs and their century old curse, Sam," Dean nodded and grinned as he closed the laptop then handed it to his brother to pack for the night. "We need to break it. Trust me, Sammy. I feel like it's… uh… my destiny."

"Destiny?" Sam looked at him doubtfully.

"Alright fine then," Dean relented. "I've earned the right to see a friggin' pro baseball game in person once in my _actual_ life."

_THE END_

**oOoOoOo**

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**A/N:** Thanks for tagging along for the ride. I tried to wrap up what loose ends I could. It is true, ends are hard, always messy and generally aren't loved by one and all.

I've got a few more Supernatural stories rattling around in my brain (I need to do something to get through the summer with no new adventures for the Winchesters on TV). If you think you might be interested in any of my other stories, just favorite me as an author so when they pop up you'll be among the first to know. Thanks again for reading and for all your reviews and thanks even more to those who have given my novel a try. I'm off to finish the sequel (or rather, book two of the trilogy as it stands now). Allegedly, this second novel will be published in December… wish me luck on curing the professional writer's block...


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